CHRISTMAS 
STORIES 


AND 

SPAK15H 


UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 
Donated,  in  memory  of 


John  W.    Snvder 
by 


His  Son  and  Daughter 


CHRISTMAS   STORIES 


FROM 


ana  £>pani0l) 


BY 


ANTOINETTE  OGDEN 


CHICAGO 

A.  C.  McCLURG   AND   COMPANY 
1802 


COPYRIGHT 
BY  A.  C.  McCLURG  AND  Co. 

A.  D.    1892 


FROM-FRENCH 
AND  SPANISH 
WRITERS?  BY 
ANTOINETTE 
OGDE, 


CHICAGO 

A'C-M5C  LURG^  COHP/Jff 
/VD-CCCXCII 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

A  BIRD  IN  THE  SNOW n 

From  the  Spanish  of  Armando  Palacio  Valdes. 

A  CHRISTMAS  IN  THE  FOREST 33 

From  the  French  of  Andre  Theuriet. 

THE  LOUIS-D'OR 41 

From  the  French  of  Francois  Coppee. 

A  CHRISTMAS  SUPPER  IN  THE  MARAIS    ...      51 

From  the  French  of  Alphonse  Daudet, 

THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  RAGAMUFFIN    ...      59 

From  the  Spanish  of  Benito  Perez  Galdos. 

A  TRAGEDY 91 

From  the  Spanish  of  Antonio  Mare. 

THE  THREE  Low  MASSES 103 

From  the  French  of  Alphonse  Daudet. 

THE  POET'S  CHRISTMAS  EVE 117 

From  the  Spanish  of  Pedro  A   de  Alarcon. 

I    TAKE    SUPPER   WITH    MY    WIFE 135 

From  the  French  of  Gustave  Droz. 

THE  YULE  LOG 147 

From  the  French  of  Jules  Simon. 


x  Contents. 

PAGE 

THE  MULE  AND  THE  Ox 

From  the  Spanish  of  Beliito  Perez  Gald6s. 

SOLANGE,   THE    WOLF-GlRL 2OI 

From  the  French  of  Marcel  Prevost. 

SALVETTE  AND  BERNADOU 2I3 

From  the  French  of  Alphonse  Daudet 

MAESE  PEREZ,  THE  ORGANIST  ...    221 

From  the  Spanish  of  Gustavo  Adolfo  Becquer. 


THE  TORN  CLOAK 

From  the  French  of  Maxime  du  Camp. 


CHRISTMAS    STORIES. 


A   BIRD    IN   THE   SNOW. 

From  the  Spanish  of  ARMANDO  PALACIO  VALD£S. 

"E  was  born  blind,  and  had 
been  taught  the  one  thing 
which  the  blind  generally 
learn,  —  music  ;  for  this 
art  he  was  specially  gift- 
ed. His  mother  died 
when  he  was  little  more 
than  a  child,  and  his 
father,  who  was  the  first 
cornetist  of  a  military 
.  band,  followed  her  to  the 
grave  a  few  years  later. 

He  had  a  brother  in  America  from  whom  he 
had  never  heard ;  still,  through  indirect  sources 
he  knew  him  to  be  well  off,  married,  and  the 
father  of  two  fine  children.  To  the  day  of  his 
death  the  old  musician,  indignant  at  his  son's 
ingratitude,  would  not  allow  his  name  to  be  men- 
tioned in  his  presence ;  but  the  blind  boy's  affec- 


i2  Christmas  Stories. 

tion  for  his  brother  remained  unchanged.  He 
could  not  forget  that  this  elder  brother  had  been 
the  support  of  his  childhood,  the  defence  of  his 
weakness  against  the  other  boys,  and  that  he  had 
always  spoken  to  him  with  kindness.  The  recol- 
lection of  Santiago's  voice  as  he  entered  his  room 
in  the  morning,  shouting,  "  Hey  there,  Juanito  ! 
get  up,  man ;  don't  sleep  so  !  "  rang  in  the  blind 
boy's  ears  with  a  more  pleasing  harmony  than 
could  ever  be  drawn  from  the  keys  of  a  piano  or 
the  strings  of  a  violin.  Was  it  probable  that  such 
a  kind  heart  had  grown  cold  ?  Juan  could  not 
believe  it,  and  was  always  striving  to  justify  him. 
At  times  the  fault  was  with  the  mail,  or  it  might 
be  that  his  brother  did  not  wish  to  write  until 
he  could  send  them  a  good  deal  of  money  ;  then 
again,  he  fancied  that  he  meant  to  surprise  them 
by  presenting  himself  some  fine  day,  laden  with 
gold,  in  the  modest  entresol  in  which  they  lived. 
But  he  never  dared  communicate  any  of  these 
fancies  to  his  father;  only  when  the  old  man, 
wrought  to  an  unusual  pitch  of  exasperation, 
bitterly  apostrophized  the  absent  one,  he  found 
the  courage  to  say :  u  You  must  not  despair, 
father.  Santiago  is  good,  and  my  heart  tells  me 
that  we  shall  hear  from  him  one  of  these  days." 
The  father  died,  however,  without  hearing 
from  his  son,  between  a  priest,  who  exhorted 
him,  and  the  blind  boy,  who  clung  convulsively 


A  Bird  in  the  Snow.  13 

to  his  hand,  as  if  he  meant  to  detain  him  in  this 
world  by  main  force.  When  the  old  man's 
body  was  removed  from  the  house,  the  boy 
seemed  to  have  lost  his  reason,  and  in  a  frenzy 
of  grief  he  struggled  with  the  undertaker's  men. 
Then  he  was  left  alone.  And  what  loneliness 
was  his  !  No  father,  no  mother,  no  relatives, 
no  friends  ;  he  was  even  deprived  of  the  sun- 
light, which  is  the  friend  of  all  created  things. 
He  was  two  whole  days  in  his  room  pacing  the 
floor  like  a  caged  wolf,  without  tasting  food. 
The  chamber-maid,  assisted  by  a  compassionate 
neighbor,  succeeded  in  saving  him  from  this 
slow  process  of  suicide.  He  was  prevailed  upon 
to  eat.  He  spent  the  rest  of  his  life  praying, 
and  working  at  his  music. 

His  father,  shortly  before  his  death,  had  ob- 
tained for  him  a  position  as  organist  in  one  of 
the  churches  of  Madrid,  with  a  salary  of  seventy 
cents  a  day.  This  was  scarcely  sufficient  to 
meet  the  running  expenses  of  a  house,  how- 
ever modest ;  so  within  a  fortnight  Juan  sold 
all  that  had  constituted  the  furniture  of  his 
humble  home,  dismissed  his  servant,  and  took 
a  room  at  a  boarding-house,  for  which  he  paid 
forty  cents  a  day ;  the  remaining  thirty  cents 
covered  all  his  other  expenses.  He  lived  thus 
for  several  months  without  leaving  his  room  ex- 
cept to  fulfil  his  obligations.  His  only  walks 


14  Christmas  Stories. 

were  from  the  house  to  the  church,  and  from 
the  church  back  again.  His  grief  weighed  upon 
him  so  heavily  that  he  never  opened  his  lips. 
He  spent  the  long  hours  of  the  day  composing 
a  grand  requiem  Mass  for  the  repose  of  his 
father's  soul,  depending  upon  the  charity  of  the 
parish  for  its  execution  •  and  although  it  would 
be  incorrect  to  say  that  he  strained  his  five 
senses,  —  on  account  of  his  having  but  four,  — 
it  can  at  least  be  said  that  he  threw  all  the 
energies  of  his  body  and  soul  into  his  work. 

The  ministerial  crisis  overtook  him  before  his 
task  was  half  finished.  I  do  not  remember  who 
came  into  power,  whether  the  Radicals,  Con- 
servatives, or  Constitutionals  ;  at  any  rate,  there 
was  some  great  change.  The  news  reached  Juan 
late,  and  to  his  sorrow.  The  new  cabinet  soon 
judged  him,  in  his  capacity  as  an  organist,  to  be 
a  dangerous  citizen,  and  felt  that  from  the  heights 
of  the  choir,  at  vespers  or  in  the  solemnity  of  the 
Mass,  with  the  swell  and  the  roar  from  all  the 
stops  of  the  organ,  he  was  evincing  sentiments 
of  opposition  which  were  truly  scandalous.  The 
new  ministers  were  ill  disposed,  as  they  declared 
in  Congress  through  the  lips  of  one  of  their  au- 
thorized members,  "  to  tolerate  any  form  of  im- 
position," so  they  proceeded  with  praiseworthy 
energy  to  place  Juan  on  the  retired  list,  and  to 
find  him  a  substitute  whose  musical  manoeuvres 


.    A  Bird  in  the  Snow.  15 

might  offer  a  better  guarantee,  —  a  man,  in  a 
word,  who  would  prove  more  loyal  to  the  insti- 
tutions. On  being  officially  informed  of  this, 
the  blind  one  experienced  no  emotion  beyond 
surprise.  In  the  deep  recesses  of  his  heart  he 
was  pleased,  as  he  was  thus  left  more  time  in 
which  to  work  at  his  Mass.  The  situation  ap- 
peared to  him  in  its  real  light  only  when  his 
landlady,  at  the  end  of  the  month,  came  to  him 
for  money.  He  had  none  to  give  her,  naturally, 
as  his  salary  had  been  withdrawn  ;  and  he  was 
compelled  to  pawn  his  father's  watch,  after  which 
he  resumed  his  work  with  perfect  serenity  and 
without  a  thought  of  the  future.  But  the  land- 
lady came  again  for  money  at  the  end  of  an- 
other month,  and  he  once  more  pawned  a 
jewel  of  the  scant  paternal  legacy ;  this  was  a 
small  diamond  ring.  In  a  few  months  there 
was  nothing  left  to  pawn.  So  the  landlady,  in 
consideration  of  his  helplessness,  kept  him  two 
or  three  days  beyond  the  time  and  then  turned 
him  out,  with  the  self-congratulatory  feeling  of 
having  acted  generously  in  not  claiming  his 
trunk  and  clothes,  from  which  she  might  have 
realized  the  few  cents  that  he  still  owed  her. 

He  looked  for  another  lodging,  but  was  unable 
to  rent  a  piano,  which  was  a  sore  trial  to  him  ; 
evidently  he  could  not  finish  his  Mass.  He 
knew  a  shopkeeper  who  owned  a  piano  and  who 


1 6  Christmas  Stories. 

permitted  him  to  make  use  of  it.  But  Juan 
soon  noticed  that  his  visits  grew  more  and  more 
inopportune,  so  he  left  off  going.  Shortly,  too, 
he  was  turned  out  of  his  new  lodgings,  only 
this  time  they  kept  his  trunk.  Then  came  a 
period  of  misery  and  anguish,  —  of  that  misery 
of  which  it  is  hard  to  conceive.  We  know  that 
life  has  few  joys  for  the  homeless  and  the  poor, 
but  if  in  addition  they  be  blind  and  alone,  surely 
they  have  found  the  limit  of  human  suffering. 
Juan  was  tossed  about  from  lodging  to  lodging, 
lying  in  bed  while  his  only  shirt  was  being  washed, 
wandering  through  the  streets  of  Madrid  with  torn 
shoes,  his  trousers  worn  to  a  fringe  about  his  feet, 
his  hair  long,  and  his  beard  unshaven.  Some 
compassionate  fellow-lodger  obtained  a  position 
for  him  in  a  cafe,  from  which,  however,  he  was 
soon  turned  out,  for  its  frequenters  did  not  relish 
his  music.  He  never  played  popular  dances  or 
peten6ras,  no  fandangos,  not  even  an  occasional 
polka.  His  fingers  glided  over  the  keys  in 
dreamy  ecstasies  of  Beethoven  arid  Chopin,  and 
the  audience  found  some  difficulty  in  keeping 
time  with  their  spoons.  So  out  he  went  again 
through  the  byways  of  the  capital.  Every  now 
and  then  some  charitable  soul,  accidentally 
brought  in  contact  with  his  misery,  assisted  him 
indirectly,  for  Juan  shuddered  at  the  thought  of 
begging.  He  took  his  meals  in  some  tavern  or 


A  Bird  in  the  Snow.  17 

other  in  the  lowest  quarter  of  Madrid,  ate  just 
enough  to  keep  from  starving,  and  for  two  cents 
he  was  allowed  to  sleep  in  a  hovel  between  beg- 
gars and  evil-doers.  Once  they  stole  his  trousers 
while  he  was  asleep,  and  left  him  a  pair  of  cotton 
ones  in  their  stead.  This  was  in  November. 

Poor  Juan,  who  had  always  cherished  the 
thought  of  his  brother's  return,  now  in  the 
depths  of  his  misery  nursed  his  chimera  with  re- 
doubled faith.  He  had  a  letter  written  and  sent 
to  Havana.  As  he  had  no  idea  how  his  brother 
could  be  reached,  the  letter  bore  no  direction. 
He  made  all  manner  of  inquiries,  but  to  no  effect, 
and  he  spent  long  hours  on  his  knees,  hoping 
that  Heaven  might  send  Santiago  to  his  rescue. 
His  only  happy  moments  were  those  spent  in 
prayer,  as  he  knelt  behind  a  pillar  in  the  far-off 
corner  of  some  solitary  church,  breathing  the 
acrid  odors  of  dampness  and  melting  wax,  lis- 
tening to  the  flickering  sputter  of  the  tapers  and 
the  faint  murmur  rising  from  the  lips  of  the 
faithful  in  the  nave  of  the  temple.  His  inno- 
cent soul  then  soared  above  the  cruelties  of 
life  and  communed  with  God  and  the  Holy 
Mother.  From  his  early  childhood  devotion 
to  the  Virgin  had  been  deeply  rooted  in  his 
heart.  As  he  had  never  known  his  mother, 
he  instinctively  turned  to  the  mother  of  God 
for  that  tender  and  loving  protection  which 


1 8  Christmas  Stories. 

only  a  woman  can  give  a  child.  He  had  com- 
posed a  number  of  hymns  and  canticles  in  her 
honor,  and  he  never  fell  asleep  without  press- 
ing his  lips  to  the  image  of  the  Carmen,  which 
he  wore  on  his  neck. 

There  came  a  day,  however,  when  heaven 
and  earth  forsook  him.  Driven  from  his  last 
shelter,  without  a  crust  to  save  him  from  starva- 
tion, or  a  cloak  to  protect  him  from  the  cold, 
he  realized  with  terror  that  the  time  had  come 
when  he  would  have  to  beg.  A  great  struggle 
took  place  in  his  soul.  Shame  and  suffering 
made  a  desperate  stand  against  necessity.  The 
profound  darkness  which  surrounded  him  in- 
creased the  anguish  of  the  strife ;  but  hunger 
conquered  in  the  end.  He  prayed  for  strength 
with  sobs,  and  resigned  himself  to  his  fate. 
Still,  wishing  to  disguise  his  humiliation,  he  de- 
termined to  sing  in  the  streets,  at  night  only. 
His  voice  was  good,  and  he  had  a  rare  knowl- 
edge of  the  art  of  singing.  It  occurred  to  him 
that  he  had  no  means  of  accompaniment.  But 
he  soon  found  another  unfortunate,  perhaps  a 
trifle  less  wretched  than  himself,  who  lent  him  an 
old  and  broken  guitar.  He  mended  it  as  best  he 
could,  and  with  a  voice  hoarse  with  tears  he  went 
out  into  the  street  on  a  frosty  December  night. 
His  heart  beat  violently  ;  his  knees  trembled  un- 
der him.  When  he  tried  to  sing  in  one  of  the 


A  Bird  in  the  Snow.  19 

central  thoroughfares,  he  found  he  could  not  utter 
a  sound.  Suffering  and  shame  seemed  to  have 
tied  a  knot  in  his  throat.  He  groped  about  un- 
til he  had  found  a  wall  to  lean  against.  There 
he  stood  for  awhile,  and  when  he  felt  a  little 
calmer  he  began  the  tenor's  aria  from  the  first 
act  of  "  Favorita."  A  blind  singer  who  sang 
neither  couplets  nor  popular  songs  soon  excited 
some  curiosity  among  the  passers-by,  and  in  a 
few  minutes  a  crowd  had  gathered  around  him. 
There  was  a  murmur  of  surprise  and  admiration 
at  the  art  with  which  he  overcame  the  difficulties 
of  the  composition,  and  many  a  copper  was 
dropped  in  the  hat  that  dangled  from  his  arm. 
After  this  he  sang  the  aria  of  the  fourth  act  of 
"  Africana."  But  too  many  had  stopped  to  lis- 
ten, and  the  authorities  began  to  fear  that  this 
might  be  a  cause  of  disturbance  ;  for  it  is  a  well- 
established  fact  with  officials  of  the  police  force 
that  people  who  congregate  in  the  streets  to  hear  a 
blind  man  sing  are  always  prompted  by  motives 
of  rebellion,  —  it  means  a  peculiar  hostility  to 
the  institutions ;  in  a  word,  an  attitude  thor- 
oughly incompatible  with  the  peace  of  society 
and  the  security  of  the  State.  Accordingly,  a 
policeman  caught  Juan  energetically  by  the  arm 
and  said,  "  Here,  here  !  go  straight  home  now, 
and  don't  let  me  catch  you  stopping  at  any 
more  street  corners." 


2O  Christmas  Stories. 

"  I  'm  doing  no  harm  !  " 

"  You  are  blocking  the  thoroughfare.  Come, 
move  on,  move  on,  if  you  don't  want  to  go  to 
the  lock-up." 

It  is  really  encouraging  to  see  how  careful 
our  authorities  are  in  clearing  the  streets  of  blind 
singers ;  and  I  really  believe,  in  spite  of  all  that 
has  been  said  to  the  contrary,  that  if  they  could 
keep  them  equally  free  from  thieves  and  mur- 
derers, they  would  do  so  with  pleasure.  Juan 
went  back  to  his  hovel  with  a  heavy  heart,  for 
he  was  by  nature  shrinking  and  timid,  and  was 
grieved  at  having  disturbed  the  peace  and  given 
rise  to  the  interference  of  the  executive  power. 
He  had  made  twenty-seven  cents.  With  this 
he  bought  something  to  eat  on  the  following 
day,  and  paid  rent  for  the  little  pile  of  straw  on 
which  he  slept.  The  next  night  he  went  out 
again  and  sang  a  few  more  operatic  arias  ;  but 
the  people  again  crowded  around  him,  and  once 
more  a  policeman  felt  himself  called  upon  to  in- 
terfere, shouting  at  him  to  move  on.  But  how 
could  he?  If  he  kept  moving  on,  he  would  not 
make  a  cent.  He  could  not  expect  the  people 
to  follow  him.  Juan  moved  on,  however,  on 
and  on,  because  he  was  timid,  and  the  mere 
thought  of  infringing  the  laws,  of  disturbing 
even  momentarily  the  peace  of  his  native  land, 
was  worse  than  death  to  him.  So  his  earnings 


A  Bird  in  the  Snow.  21 

rapidly  decreased.  The  necessity  of  moving  on. 
on  the  one  hand,  and  the  fact  that  his  perform- 
ances had  lost  the  charm  of  novelty,  which  in 
Spain  always  commands  its  price,  daily  de- 
prived him  of  a  few  coppers.  With  what  he 
brought  home  at  night  he  could  scarcely  buy 
enough  food  to  keep  him  alive.  The  situa- 
tion was  desperate.  The  poor  boy  saw  but  one 
luminous  point  in  the  clouded  horizon  of  his 
life,  and  that  was  his  brother's  return  to  Madrid. 
Every  night  as  he  left  his  hovel  with  his  guitar 
swinging  from  his  shoulder  he  thought,  "  If 
Santiago  should  be  in  Madrid  and  hear  me  sing, 
he  would  know  me  by  my  voice."  And  this 
hope,  or  rather  this  chimera,  alone  gave  him 
the  strength  to  endure  life.  However,  there 
came  again  a  day  in  which  his  anguish  knew 
no  limit.  On  the  preceding  night  he  had 
earned  only  six  coppers.  It  had  been  so  cold  ! 
This  was  Christmas  Eve.  When  the  morn- 
ing dawned  upon  the  world,  it  found  Madrid 
wrapped  in  a  sheet  of  snow  six  inches  thick. 
It  snowed  steadily  all  day  long,  which  was  a 
matter  of  little  consequence  to  the  majority  of 
people,  and  was  even  a  cause  of  much  rejoicing 
among  aesthetes  generally.  Those  poets  in  par- 
ticular who  enjoy  what  is  called  easy  circum- 
stances spent  the  greater  part  of  the  day  watching 
the  flakes  through  the  plate -glass  of  their  study 


22  Christmas  Stories. 

windows,  meditating  upon  and  elaborating  those 
graceful  and  ingenious  similes  that  cause  the 
audiences  at  the  theatre  to  shout,  "  Bravo, 
bravo  !  "  or  those  who  read  their  verses  to  ex- 
claim, "  What  a  genius  that  young  fellow  is  !  " 

Juan's  breakfast  had  been  a  crust  of  stale 
bread  and  a  cup  of  watery  coffee.  He  could 
not  divert  his  hunger  by  contemplating  the 
beauty  of  the  snow,  —  in  the  first  place,  because 
he  was  blind,  and  in  the  second,  because,  even 
had  he  not  been  blind,  he  would  have  had  some 
difficulty  in  seeing  it  through  the  patched  and 
filthy  panes  of  his  hovel.  He  spent  the  day 
huddled  in  a  corner  on  his  straw  mattress,  evok- 
ing scenes  of  his  childhood  and  caressing  the 
sweet  dream  of  his  brother's  return.  At  nightfall 
he  grew  very  faint,  but  necessity  drove  him 
into  the  streets  to  beg.  His  guitar  was  gone. 
He  had  sold  it  for  sixty  cents  on  a  day  of  similar 
hardship.  The  snow  fell  with  the  same  per- 
sistence. His  legs  trembled  as  they  had  when 
he  sang  for  the  first  time,  but  now  it  was  from 
hunger  rather  than  shame.  He  groped  about  as 
best  he  could,  with  great  lumps  of  mud  above 
his  ankles.  The  silence  told  him  that  there  was 
scarcely  a  soul  on  the  street.  The  carriages 
rolled  noiselessly  along,  and  he  once  came  near 
being  run  over.  In  one  of  the  central  thor- 
oughfares he  began  to  sing  the  first  thing 


A  Bird  in  the  Snow.  23 

that  came  to  his  lips.  His  voice  was  weak  and 
hoarse.  Nobody  stopped  to  listen.  "  Let  us 
try  another  street,"  thought  he  ;  and  he  went 
down  the  Avenue  of  San  Jeronimo,  walking  awk- 
wardly in  the  snow,  with  a  white  coating  on  his 
shoulders  and  water  squirting  from  his  shoes. 
The  cold  had  begun  to  penetrate  into  his  very 
bones,  and  hunger  gave  him  a  violent  pain.  For 
a  moment  with  the  cold  and  the  pain  came  a 
feeling  of  faintness  which  made  him  think  that 
he  was  about  to  die,  and  lifting  his  spirit  to  the 
Virgin  of  the  Carmen,  his  protectress,  he  ex- 
claimed in  his  anguish,  ''  Mother,  have  pity !  '' 
And  after  pronouncing  these  words  he  felt  re- 
lieved and  walked,  or  rather  dragged  himself,  to 
the  Plaza  de  las  Cortes.  There  he  grasped  a 
lamp-post,  and  under  the  impression  of  the  Vir- 
gin's protection  sang  Gounod's  "  Ave  Maria." 
Still  nobody  stopped  to  hear  him.  The  people 
of  Madrid  were  at  the  theatres,  at  the  cafes,  or 
at  home,  dancing  their  little  ones  on  their  knees 
in  the  glow  of  the  hearth,  —  in  the  warmth  of 
their  love.  The  snow  continued  to  fall  steadily, 
copiously,  with  the  evident  purpose  of  furnishing 
a  topic  for  the  local  column  of  the  morning 
paper,  where  it  would  be  described  in  a  thou- 
sand delicate  phrases.  The  occasional  passers- 
by  hurried  along  muffled  up  to  their  ears  under 
their  umbrellas.  The  lamp-posts  had  put  on 


24  Christmas  Stories. 

their  white  night-caps,  from  under  which  es- 
caped thin  rays  of  dismal  light.  The  silence 
was  broken  only  by  the  vague  and  distant  rum- 
ble of  carriages  and  by  the  light  fall  of  the  snow- 
flakes,  that  sounded  like  the  faint  and  continuous 
rustle  of  silk.  The  voice  of  Juan  alone  vibrated 
in  the  stillness  of  the  night,  imploring  the 
mother  of  the  unprotected  ;  and  his  chant  seemed 
a  cry  of  anguish  rather  than  a  hymn  of  praise,  a 
moan  of  sadness  and  resignation  falling  dreary 
and  chill,  like  snow  upon  the  heart. 

And  his  cry  for  pity  was  in  vain.  In  vain  he 
repeated  the  sweet  name  of  Mary,  adjusting  it 
to  the  modulations  of  every  melody.  Heaven 
and  the  Virgin  were  far  away,  it  seemed,  and 
could  not  hear  him.  The  neighbors  of  the 
plaza  were  near  at  hand,  but  they  did  not  choose 
to  hear.  Nobody  came  down  to  take  him  in 
from  the  cold ;  no  window  was  thrown  open  to 
drop  him  a  copper.  The  passers-by,  pursued,  as 
it  were,  by  the  fleet  steps  of  pneumonia,  scarcely 
dared  stop.  Juan's  voice  at  last  died  in  his 
throat ;  he  could  sing  no  more.  His  legs  trem- 
bled under  him ;  his  hands  lost  their  sense  of 
touch.  He  took  a  few  steps,  then  sank  on  the 
sidewalk  at  the  foot  of  the  grating  that  surrounds 
the  square.  He  sat  with  his  elbows  on  his 
knees  and  buried  his  head  in  his  hands.  He 
felt  vaguely  that  it  was  the  last  moment  of  his 


A  Bird  in  the  Snow,  25 

life,  and  he  again  prayed,  imploring  the  divine 
pity. 

At  the  end  of  a  few  minutes  he  was  conscious 
of  being  shaken  by  the  arm,  and  knew  that  a 
man  was  standing  before  him.  He  raised  his 
head,  and  taking  for  granted  it  was  the  old  story 
about  moving  on,  inquired  timidly,  — 

"  Are  you  an  officer?  " 

"  No ;  I  am  no  officer.  What  is  the  matter 
with  you?  Get  up." 

"  I  don't  believe  I  can,  sir." 

"Are  you  very  cold?" 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  but  it  is  n't  exactly  that,  —  I  have  n't 
had  anything  to  eat  to-day." 

"  I  will  help  you,  then.    Come ;  up  with  you." 

The  man  took  Juan  by  both  arms  and  stood 
him  on  his  feet.  He  seemed  very  strong. 

"  Now  lean  on  me,  and  let  us  see  if  we  can 
find  a  cab." 

"  But  where  are  you  going  to  take  me  ?  " 

"  Nowhere  where  you  would  n't  want  to  go. 
Are  you  afraid?" 

"  No  ;  I  feel  in  my  heart  that  you  will  help 
me." 

"  Come  along,  then.  Let 's  see  how  soon  I 
can  get  you  something  hot  to  drink." 

"  God  will  reward  you  for  this,  sir ;  the  Vir- 
gin will  reward  you.  I  thought  I  was  going  to 
die  there,  against  that  grating." 


26  Christmas  Stories. 

"  Don't  talk  about  dying,  man.  The  question 
now  is  to  find  a  cab  ;  if  we  can  only  move  along 
fast  enough  —  What  is  the  matter  ?  Are  you 
stumbling  ? " 

"  Yes,  sir.  I  think  I  struck  a  lamp-post.  You 
see  —  as  I  am  blind  — 

"Are  you  blind?"  asked  the  stranger,  anx- 
iously. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"Since  when?" 

"  I  was  born  blind." 

Juan  felt  his  companion's  arm  tremble  in  his, 
and  they  walked  along  in  silence.  Suddenly  the 
man  stopped  and  asked  in  a  voice  husky  with 
emotion,  — 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Juan." 

"Juan  what?" 

"Juan  Martinez." 

"  And  your  father  was  Manuel  Martinez,  was  n't 
he,  —  musician  of  the  third  artillery  band  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

The  blind  one  felt  the  tight  clasp  of  two  pow- 
ful  arms  that  almost  smothered  him,  and  heard 
a  trembling  voice  exclaim,  — 

"  My  God,  how  horrible,  and  how  happy  ! 
I  am  a  criminal,  Juan !  I  am  your  brother 
Santiago ! " 

And  the  two  brothers  stood  sobbing  together 


A  Bird  in  the  Snow.  27 

in  the  middle  of  the  street.  The  snow  fell  on 
them  lightly.  Suddenly  Santiago  tore  himself 
from  his  brother's  embrace,  and  began  to  shout, 
intermingling  his  words  with  interjections,  — 

"  A  cab  !  A  cab  !  Is  n't  there  a  cab  anywhere 
around  ?  Curse  my  luck !  Come,  Juanillo,  try  ; 
make  an  effort,  my  boy ;  we  are  not  so  very  far. 
But  where  in  the  name  of  sense  are  all  the  cabs  ? 
Not  one  has  passed  us.  Ah,  I  see  one  coming, 
thank  God !  No ;  the  brute  is  going  in  the 
other  direction.  Here  is  another.  This  one  is 
mine.  Hello  there,  driver  !  Five  dollars  if  you 
take  us  flying  to  Number  13  Castellana." 

And  taking  his  brother  in  his  arms  as  though 
he  had  been  a  mere  child,  he  put  him  in  the  cab 
and  jumped  in  after  him.  The  driver  whipped 
his  horse,  and  off  they  went,  gliding  swiftly  and 
noiselessly  over  the  snow.  In  the  mean  time 
Santiago,  with  his  arms  still  around  Juan,  told  him 
something  of  his  life.  He  had  been  in  Costa 
Rica,  not  Cuba,  and  had  accumulated  a  respect- 
able fortune.  He  had  spent  many  years  in  the 
country,  beyond  mail  service  and  far  from  any 
point  of  communication  with  Europe.  He  had 
written  several  letters  to  his  father,  and  had  man- 
aged to  get  these  on  some  steamer  trading  with 
England,  but  had  never  received  any  answer. 
In  the  hope  of  returning  shortly  to  Spain,  he  had 
made  no  inquiries.  He  had  been  in  Madrid  for 


28  Christmas  Stories. 

four  months.  He  learned  from  the  parish  record 
that  his  father  was  dead ;  but  all  he  could  dis- 
cover concerning  Juan  was  vague  and  contradic- 
tory. Some  believed  that  he  had  died,  while 
others  said  that,  reduced  to  the  last  stages  of 
misery,  he  went  through  the  streets  singing  and 
playing  on  the  guitar.  All  his  efforts  to  find  him 
had  been  fruitless ;  but  fortunately  Providence 
had  thrown  him  into  his  arms.  Santiago  laughed 
and  cried  alternately,  showing  himself  to  be  the 
same  frank,  open-hearted,  jovial  soul  that  Juan 
had  loved  so  in  his  childhood.  The  cab  finally 
came  to  a  stop.  A  man-servant  opened  the  door, 
and  Juan  was  fairly  lifted  into  the  house.  When 
the  door  closed  behind  him,  he  breathed  a  warm 
atmosphere  full  of  that  peculiar  aroma  of  com- 
fort which  wealth  seems  to  exhale.  His  feet 
sank  in  the  soft  carpet.  Two  servants  relieved 
him  of  his  dripping  clothes  and  brought  him 
clean  linen  and  a  warm  dressing-gown.  In  the 
same  room,  before  a  crackling  wood  fire,  he  was 
served  a  comforting  bowl  of  hot  broth,  followed 
by  something  more  substantial,  which  he  was 
made  to  take  very  slowly  and  with  all  the  pre- 
cautions which  his  critical  condition  required. 
Then  a  bottle  of  old  wine  was  brought  up  from 
the  cellar.  Santiago  was  too  restless  to  sit  still. 
He  came  and  went,  giving  orders,  interrupting 
himself  every  minute  to  say, — 


A  Bird  in  the  Snow.  29 

"  How  do  you  feel  now,  Juan  ?  Are  you 
warm  enough  ?  Perhaps  you  don't  care  for  this 
wine." 

When  the  meal  was  over,  the  two  brothers 
sat  silently  side  by  side  before  the  fire.  San- 
tiago then  inquired  of  one  of  the  servants  if  the 
Senora  and  the  children  had  already  retired. 
On  learning  that  they  had,  he  said  to  Juan, 
beaming  with  delight,  — 

"  Can  you  play  on  the  piano  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Come  into  the  parlor,  then.  Let  us  give 
them  a  surprise." 

He  accordingly  led  him  into  an  adjoining 
room  and  seated  him  at  the  piano.  He  raised 
the  top  so  as  to  obtain  the  greatest  possible 
vibration,  threw  open  the  doors,  and  went 
through  all  the  manoeuvres  peculiar  to  a  sur- 
prise, —  tiptoeing,  whispering,  speaking  in  a  fal- 
setto, and  so  much  absurd  pantomime  that  Juan 
could  not  help  laughing  as  he  realized  how  little 
his  brother  had  changed. 

"  Now,  Juanillo,  play  something  startling,  and 
play  it  loud,  with  all  your  might." 

The  blind  boy  struck  up  a  military  march.  A 
quiver  ran  through  the  silent  house  like  that 
which  stirs  a  music-box  while  it  is  being  wound 
up.  The  notes  poured  from  the  piano,  hurry- 
ing, jostling  one  another,  but  never  losing  their 


30  Christmas  Stories. 

triumphant  rhythm.  Every  now  and  then  San- 
tiago exclaimed,  — 

"  Louder,  Juanillo  !  Louder  !  " 

And  the  blind  boy  struck  the  notes  with  all 
his  spirit  and  might. 

"  I  see  my  wife  peeping  in  from  behind  the 
curtains.  Go  on,  Juanillo.  She  is  in  her  night- 
gown, —  he,  he  !  I  am  pretending  not  to  see  her. 
I  have  no  doubt  she  thinks  I  am  crazy,  —  he,  he  ! 
Go  on,  Juanillo." 

Juan  obeyed,  although  he  thought  the  jest 
had  been  carried  far  enough.  He  wanted  to 
know  his  sister-in-law  and  kiss  his  nephews. 

"  Now  I  can  just  see  Manolita.  Hello ! 
Paquito  is  up  too.  Did  n't  I  tell  you  we  should 
surprise  them  ?  But  I  am  afraid  they  will  take 
cold.  Stop  a  minute,  Juanito  !  " 

And  the  infernal  clamor  was  silenced. 

"  Come,  Adela,  Manolita,  and  Paquito,  get 
on  your  things  and  come  in  to  see  your  uncle 
Juan.  This  is  Juanillo,  of  whom  you  have  heard 
me  speak  so  often.  I  have  just  found  him  in 
the  street  almost  frozen  to  death.  Come,  hurry 
and  dress,  all  of  you." 

The  whole  family  was  soon  ready,  and  rushed 
in  to  embrace  the  blind  boy.  The  wife's  voice 
was  soft  and  harmonious.  To  Juan  it  sounded 
like  the  voice  of  the  Virgin.  He  discovered, 
too,  that  she  was  weeping  silently  at  the  thought 


A  Bird  in  the  Snow.  31 

of  all  his  sufferings.  She  ordered  a  foot-wanner 
to  be  brought  in.  She  wrapped  his  legs  in  a 
cloak  and  put  a  soft  cushion  behind  his  head. 
The  children  stood  around  his  chair,  caressing 
him,  and  all  listened  with  tears  to  the  accounts 
of  his  past  misery.  Santiago  struck  his  forehead  ; 
the  children  stroked  his  hands,  saying,  — 

"You  will  never  be  hungry  again,  will  you, 
uncle  ?  Or  go  out  without  a  cloak  and  an  um- 
brella? I  don't  want  you  to,  neither  does  Mano- 
lita,  nor  mamma,  nor  papa." 

"  I  wager  you  will  not  give  him  your  bed, 
Paquito,"  said  Santiago,  trying  to  conceal  his 
tears  under  his  affected  merriment. 

"  My  bed  won't  fit  him,  papa  !  But  he  can 
have  the  bed  in  the  guests'  chamber.  It  is  a 
great  bed,  uncle,  a  big,  big  bed  !  " 

"  I  don't  believe  I  care  to  go  to  bed,"  said 
Juan.  "  Not  just  now  at  any  rate,  I  am  so  com- 
fortable here." 

"That  pain  has  gone,  hasn't  it,  uncle?" 
whispered  Manolita,  kissing  and  stroking  his 
hand. 

"  Yes,  dear,  yes,  —  God  bless  you  !  Nothing 
pains  me  now.  I  am  happy,  very  happy  !  Only 
I  feel  sleepy,  so  sleepy  that  I  can  hardly  raise 
my  eyelids." 

"  Never  mind  us ;  sleep  if  you  feel  like  it," 
said  Santiago. 


32  Christmas  Stories. 

"  Yes,  uncle,  sleep,"  repeated  the  children. 

And  Juan  fell  asleep,  — but  he  wakened  in 
another  world. 

The  next  morning,  at  dawn,  two  policemen 
stumbled  against  a  corpse  in  the  snow.  The 
doctor  of  the  charity  hospital  pronounced  it  a 
case  of  congealing  of  the  blood. 

As  one  of  the  officers  turned  him  over,  face 
upward,  — 

"  Look,  Jimenez,"  said  he  ;  "  he  seems  to  be 
laughing." 


A   CHRISTMAS   IN   THE   FOREST. 
From  the  French  of  ANDRE  THEURIET. 

HRISTMAS  EVE  that 
year  was  bleak  and  cold, 
and  the  village  seemed 
benumbed.  The  houses 
were  closed  hermeti- 
cally, and  so  were  the 
stables,  from  which  came 
the  muffled  sound  of 
animals  chewing  the 

cud.  From  time  to  time  the  clacking  of  wooden 
shoes  on  the  hardened  ground  resounded  through 
the  deserted  streets,  then  a  door  was  hastily 
opened  and  closed,  and  all  relapsed  into  silence. 
It  was  evident  from  the  thick  smoke  rising 
through  the  chimneys  into  the  gray  air  that  every 
family  was  huddled  around  its  hearth  while  the 
housewife  prepared  the  Christmas  supper.  Stoop- 
ing forward,  with  their  legs  stretched  out  to  the 
fire,  their  countenances  beaming  with  pleasure 
at  the  prospect  of  the  morrow's  festival  and  the 
foretaste  of  the  fat  and  juicy  blood-sausages,  the 
peasants  laughed  at  the  north  wind  that  swept 
3 


34  Christmas  Stories. 

the  roads,  at  the  frost  that  powdered  the  trees 
of  the  forest,  and  the  ice  that  seemed  to  vitrify 
the  streams  and  the  river.  Following  their  ex- 
ample, my  friend  Tristan  and  I  spent  the  livelong 
day  in  the  old  house  of  the  Abbatiale  at  the  cor- 
ner of  the  hearth,  smoking  our  pipes  and  read- 
ing poetry.  At  sundown  we  had  grown  tired  of 
seclusion  and  determined  to  venture  out. 

"  The  forest  must  be  a  strange  sight  with  this 
heavy  frost,"  said  I  to  Tristan.  "  Suppose  we 
take  a  turn  through  the  wood  after  supper ;  be- 
sides, I  must  see  the  sabotiers  from  Courroy  about 
a  little  matter." 

So  we  pulled  on  our  gaiters,  stuffed  our  pipes, 
wrapped  ourselves  in  our  cloaks  and  mufflers, 
and  penetrated  into  the  wood. 

We  walked  along  cheerfully  over  the  rugged, 
hardened  soil  of  the  trenches  furrowed  with  deep, 
frozen  ruts.  Through  the  copse  on  either  side 
we  saw  mysterious  white  depths.  After  a  damp 
night  the  north  wind  had  transformed  the  mists 
and  vapors  that  overhung  the  branches  into  a 
tangle  of  snowy  lace.  In  the  half  light  of  the 
gloaming  we  could  still  distinguish  the  sparkling 
needles  of  the  junipers,  the  frosted  puffs  of  the 
clematis,  the  bluish  crystallizations  of  the  beech, 
and  the  silver  filigree  of  the  nut-trees.  The 
silence  was  broken  by  the  occasional  creaking  of 
the  frozen  limbs,  and  every  now  and  then  a 


A   Christmas  in  the  Forest.  35 

breath  of  impalpable  white  dust  dampened  our 
cheeks  as  it  melted  there. 

We  walked  along  at  a  steady  pace,  and  in  less 
than  an  hour  caught  sight  of  the  red  and  flicker- 
ing glow  of  the  sabotiers'  camp  pitched  on  the 
edge  of  the  forest  above  a  stream  that  flowed 
down  toward  the  valley  ^of  Santonge.  The  set- 
tlement consisted  of  a  spacious,  cone-shaped,  dirt- 
coated  hut  and  a  cabin  with  board  walls  care- 
fully sealed  with  moss.  The  hut  answered  the 
combined  purposes  of  dormitory  and  kitchen ; 
the  cabin  was  used  for  the  stowing  away  of 
tools  and  wooden  shoes,  and  also  for  the 
two  donkeys  employed  in  the  transportation  of 
goods.  The  sabotiers,  masters,  apprentices, 
friends,  and  children  were  seated  on  beech  logs 
around  the  fire  in  front  of  the  hut,  and  their 
mobile  silhouettes  formed  intensely  black  profiles 
against  the  red  of  the  fire.  Three  short  posts 
driven  into  the  ground  and  drawn  together  at  the 
top  formed  the  crane,  from  which  hung  an  iron 
pot  that  simmered  over  the  coals.  An  appetizing 
odor  of  stewed  hare  escaped  from  the  tin  lid  as 
it  rose  and  fell  under  the  puffs  of  vapor.  The 
master,  a  lively,  nervous,  hairy  little  man,  wel- 
comed us  with  his  usual  cordiality. 

"  Sit  down  and  warm  yourselves,"  said  he. 
"  You  find  us  preparing  the  Christmas  supper. 
I  'm  afraid  we  '11  not  sleep  over  soundly  to-night. 


36  Christmas  Stories. 

My  old  woman  is  ill.  I  've  fixed  her  a  bed  in 
the  cabin  where  she  '11  be  more  comfortable,  and 
warmer  on  account  of  the  animals.  My  boy  has 
gone  to  Santonge  to  get  the  doctor.  There  's  no 
time  to  be  lost.  My  little  girl  is  kept  busy  run- 
ning from  the  cabin  to  the  hut." 

We  had  no  sooner  taken  our  seats  around  the 
fire  than  the  snowflakes  began  to  whirl  about  in 
the  stillness  above  us.  They  fell  so  thick  and 
fast  that  in  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  we 
were  compelled  to  protect  the  fire  with  a  hurdle 
covered  with  sackcloth. 

"  By  my  faith  !  gentlemen,"  said  the  sabotier, 
"  you  '11  not  be  able  to  start  out  again  in  this 
storm.  You  '11  have  to  stay  and  have  your  Christ- 
mas supper  with  us,  —  and  taste  of  our  stew." 

The  weather  was  certainly  not  tempting,  and 
we  accepted  the  invitation.  Besides,  the  ad- 
venture amused  us,  and  we  were  delighted  at  the 
prospect  of  a  Christmas  supper  in  the  heart  of 
the  forest.  An  hour  later  we  were  in  the  hut, 
and  by  the  light  of  a  miserable  little  candle-end 
we  had  our  Christmas  supper,  devouring  our 
hare-stew  with  a  sharp  appetite  and  washing  it 
•down  with  a  draught  of  unfermented  wine  that 
scraped  our  throats.  The  snow  fell  thicker  and 
thicker,  wrapping  the  forest  in  a  soft  white  wad- 
ding that  deadened  every  sound.  Now  and  then 
the  sabotier  rose  and  went  into  the  cabin,  then 


A    Christmas  in  the  Forest.  37 

came  back  looking  worried,  listening  anxiously 
for  the  good  woman  from  Santonge.  Suddenly 
a  few  metallic  notes,  muffled  by  the  snow,  rose 
softly  from  the  depth  of  the  valley.  A  similar 
sound  from  an  opposite  direction  rang  out  in 
answer,  then  followed  a  third  and  a  fourth,  and 
soon  a  vague  confusion  of  Christmas  chimes 
floated  over  the  forest. 

Our  hosts,  without  interrupting  the  process  of 
mastication  and  while  they  passed  around  the 
wine-jug,  tried  to  recognize  the  various  chimes 
by  the  fulness  of  the  sounds. 

"  Those  —  now  —  those  are  the  bells  from 
Vivey.  They  are  hardly  any  louder  than  the 
sound  of  the  donkey's  hoofs  on  the  stones." 

"  That  is  the  bell  of  Auberive  !  " 

"Yes  ;  and  that  peal  that  sounds  like  the 
droning  of  a  swarm  of  beetles,  that 's  the 
Grancey  chimes. ' 

During  this  discussion  Tristan  and  I  began  to 
succumb  to  the  combined  action  of  warmth  and 
fully  satisfied  appetite.  Our  eyes  blinked,  and 
before  we  knew  it  we  fell  asleep  on  the  moss  of 
the  hut,  lulled  by  the  music  of  the  Christmas 
chimes.  A  piercing  shriek  followed  by  a  sound 
of  joyful  voices  woke  us  with  a  start. 

It  had  ceased  snowing.  The  night  was  grow- 
ing pale,  and  through  the  little  skylight  we  could 
see  above  the  fleecy  trees  a  faint  light  in  the 
sky,  where  a  belated  star  hung  quivering. 


38  Christmas  Stories. 

"  It  is  a  boy  !  "  shouted  the  master,  bursting 
in  upon  us.  "  Gentlemen,  if  you  think  you 
would  like  to  see  him,  why,  I  should  be  very 
glad ;  and  it  might  bring  him  luck." 

We  went  crunching  over  the  snow  after  him 
to  the  cabin,  lighted  by  a  smoky  lamp.  On  her 
bed  of  laths  and  moss  lay  the  young  mother,  weak 
and  exhausted,  her  head  thrown  back,  her  pale 
face  framed  in  by  a  mass  of  frowzy  auburn  hair. 
The  "  good  woman,"  assisted  by  the  little  girl, 
was  bundling  up  the  new-comer,  who  wailed 
feebly.  The  two  donkeys,  amazed  at  so  much 
stir  and  confusion,  turned  their  kindly  gray  faces 
toward  the  bed,  shook  their  long  ears,  and  gazed 
around  them  with  wide,  intelligent  eyes,  blowing 
through  their  nostrils  puffs  of  warm  vapor  that 
hung  like  a  thin  mist  on  the  air.  At  the  foot  of 
the  bed  stood  a  young  shepherd,  with  a  black 
and  white  she-goat  and  a  new-born  kid. 

"  I  have  brought  you  the  she-goat,  Ma'am 
Fleuriot,"  said  he,  in  his  Langrois  drawl.  "  You 
can  have  her  for  the  boy  as  long  as  you  wish." 

The  goat  was  baaing,  the  new-born  child 
wailed,  and  the  donkeys  breathed  loudly.  There 
was  something  primitive  and  biblical  about  the 
whole  scene. 

Without,  in  the  violet  light  of  the  dawn,  while 
a  distant  church-bell  scattered  its  early  notes 
through  the  air,  one  of  the  young  apprentices, 


A   Christmas  in  the  Forest.  39 

dancing  in  the  snow  to  keep  warm,  sang  out  at 
the  top  of  his  lungs  that  old  Christmas  carol, 
which  seemed  then  full  of  new  meaning  and 
poetry,  — 

"  He  is  born,  the  little  Child. 

Ring  out,  hautbois  !    ring  out,  bagpipes  ! 
He  is  born,  the  little  Child ; 
Let  us  sing  the  happy  news." 


THE   LOUIS-D'OR. 

From  the  French  of  FRANCOIS  COPP£E. 

rHEN  Lucien  de  Hem  saw 
his  last  bill  for  a  hundred 
francs  clawed  by  the 
banker's  rake,  when  he 
rose  from  the  roulette- 
table  where  he  had  just 
lost  the  debris  of  his  lit- 
tle fortune  scraped  to- 
gether for  this  supreme  battle,  he  experienced 
something  like  vertigo,  and  thought  that  he 
should  fall.  His  brain  was  muddled  ;  his  legs 
were  limp  and  trembling.  He  threw  himself 
upon  the  leather  lounge  that  circumscribed  the 
gambling-table.  For  a  few  moments  he  mechani- 
cally followed  the  clandestine  proceedings  of  that 
hell  in  which  he  had  sullied  the  best  years  of  his 
youth,  recognized  the  worn  profiles  of  the  gam- 
blers under  the  merciless  glare  of  the  three  great 
shadeless  lamps,  listened  to  the  clicking  and  the 
sliding  of  the  gold  over  the  felt,  realized  that  he 
was  bankrupt,  lost,  remembered  that  in  the  top 
drawer  of  his  dressing-table  lay  a  pair  of  pistols, 


42  Christmas  Stories. 

—  the  very  pistols  of  which  General  de  Hem, 
his  father,  had  made  noble  use  at  the  attack  of 
Zaatcha  ;  then,  overcome  by  exhaustion,  he  sank 
into  a  heavy  sleep. 

When  he  awoke  his  mouth  was  clammy,  and 
his  tongue  stuck  to  his  palate.  He  realized  by  a 
hasty  glance  at  the  clock  that  he  had  scarcely 
slept  a  half-hour,  and  he  felt  the  imperious  ne- 
cessity of  going  out  to  get  a  breath  of  the  fresh 
night  air.  The  hands  on  the  dial  pointed  ex- 
actly to  a  quarter  of  twelve.  As  he  rose  and 
stretched  his  arms  it  occurred  to  him  that  it  was 
Christmas  Eve,  and  by  one  of  those  ironical 
freaks  of  the  memory,  he  felt  as  though  he  were 
once  more  a  child,  ready  to  stand  his  little  boot 
on  the  hearth  before  going  to  bed.  Just  then 
old  Dronski,  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  trade,  the 
traditional  Pole,  wrapped  in  the  greasy  worn 
cloak  adorned  with  frogs  and  passementerie, 
came  up  to  Lucien  muttering  something  behind 
his  dirty  grayish  beard. 

"  Lend  me  five  francs,  will  you,  Monsieur? 
I  have  n't  stirred  from  this  place  for  two  days, 
and  for  two  whole  days  seventeen  has  n't  come 
out  once.  You  may  laugh  at  me  all  you  like,  but 
I  Ml  bet  you  my  fist  that  when  the  clock  strikes 
twelve,  seventeen  will  be  the  winning  number." 

Lucien  de  Hem  shrugged  his  shoulders  ;  and 
fumbling  through  his  pockets,  he  found  that  he 


The  Louis-d"1  Or.  43 

had  not  even  money  enough  to  comply  with  that 
feature  of  gambling  etiquette  known  among  the 
frequenters  of  the  establishment  as  "  the  Pole's 
hundred  cents."  He  passed  into  the  antecham- 
ber, put  on  his  hat  and  cloak,  and  disappeared 
down  the  narrow  stairway  with  the  agility  of  peo- 
ple who  have  a  fever.  During  the  four  hours 
which  Lucien  had  spent  in  the  den  it  had 
snowed  heavily,  and  the  street,  one  of  those  nar- 
row wedges  between  two  rows  of  high  buildings 
in  the  very  heart  of  Paris,  was  intensely  white. 
Above,  in  the  calm  blue  black  of  the  sky,  cold 
stars  glittered.  The  exhausted  gambler  shivered 
under  his  furs,  and  hurried  along  with  a  blank 
despair  in  his  heart,  thinking  of  the  pistols  that 
awaited  him  in  the  top  drawer  of  his  dressing- 
table.  He  had  not  gone  a  hundred  feet  when 
he  stopped  suddenly  before  a  heart-rending 
spectacle. 

On  a  stone  bench,  near  the  monumental  door- 
way of  a  wealthy  residence,  sat  a  little  girl  six 
or  seven  years  old,  barely  covered  by  a  ragged 
black  gown.  She  had  fallen  asleep  there  in  spite 
of  the  bitter  cold,  her  body  bent  forward  in  a 
pitiful  posture  of  resigned  exhaustion.  Her 
poor  little  head  and  her  dainty  shoulder  had 
moulded  themselves  into  the  angle  of  the  freez- 
ing wall.  One  of  her  worn  slippers  had  fallen 
from  her  dangling  foot  and  lay  in  the  snow 


44  Christmas  Stories. 

before  her.  Lucien  de  Hem  mechanically 
thrust  his  hand  into  his  vest-pocket,  but  he  re- 
membered that  he  had  not  even  been  able  to 
fee  the  club  waiter.  He  went  up  to  the  child, 
however,  impelled  by  an  instinct  of  pity.  He 
meant,  no  doubt,  to  pick  her  up  and  take  her 
home  with  him,  to  give  her  shelter  for  the  night, 
when  suddenly  he  saw  something  glitter  in  the 
little  slipper  at  his  feet.  He  stooped.  It  was  a 
louis-d'or. 

Some  charitable  soul  —  a  woman,  no  doubt 
—  had  passed  there,  and  at  the  pathetic  sight 
of  that  little  shoe  in  the  snow  had  remembered 
the  poetic  Christmas  legend,  and  with  discreet 
fingers  had  dropped  a  splendid  gift,  so  that  the 
forsaken  little  one  might  still  believe  in  the  pres- 
ents of  the  Child-Christ,  and  might  awake  with 
renewed  faith  in  the  midst  of  her  misery. 

A  gold  louis  !  That  meant  many  days  of  rest 
and  comfort  for  the  little  beggar.  Lucien  was 
just  about  to  awaken  her  and  surprise  her  with 
her  good  fortune  when,  in  a  strange  hallucina- 
tion, he  heard  a  voice  in  his  ear,  which  whis- 
pered with  the  drawling  inflection  of  the  old 
Pole  :  "  I  have  n't  stirred  from  this  place  for  two 
days,  and  for  two  whole  days  seventeen  has  n't 
come  out  once.  I  '11  bet  you  my  fist  that  when 
the  clock  strikes  twelve,  seventeen  will  be  the 
winning  number." 


The  Louis-d' Or.  45 

Then  this  youth,  who  was  twenty-three  years 
of  age,  the  descendant  of  a  race  of  honest  men, 

—  this  youth  who  bore  a  great  military  name, 
and  had  never  been  guilty  of  an  unmanly  act, 

—  conceived  a  monstrous   thought ;    an  insane 
desire  took  possession  of  him.     He  looked  anx- 
iously up  and  down  the  street,  and  having  as- 
sured himself  that  he  had  no  witness,  he  knelt, 
and    reaching    out    cautiously   with    trembling 
ringers,  stole  the  treasure  from  the  little  shoe, 
then    rose   with  a  spring   and   ran  breathlessly 
down  the  street.     He  rushed  like  a  madman  up 
the  stairs  of  the  gambling-house,  flung  open  the 
door  with  his  fist,  and  burst  into  the  room  at  the 
first   stroke   of  midnight.     He  threw  the  gold- 
piece  on  the  table  and  cried,  — 

"  Seventeen  !" 

Seventeen  won.  He  then  pushed  the  whole 
pile  on  the  "  red."  The  red  won.  He  left  the 
seventy-two  louis  on  the  same  color.  The  red 
came  out  again.  He  doubled  the  stakes,  twice, 
three  times,  and  always  with  the  same  success. 
Before  him  was  a  huge  pile  of  gold  and  bank- 
notes. He  tried  the  "  twelve,"  the  "  column," 

—  he  worked  every  combination.     His  luck  was 
something  unheard  of,  something  almost  super- 
natural.    One  might  have  believed  that  the  little 
ivory  ball,  in  its  frenzied  dance  around  the  table, 
had  been  bewitched,  magnetized  by  this  feverish 


46  Christmas  Stories. 

gambler,  and  obeyed  his  will.  With  a  few  bold 
strokes  he  had  won  back  the  bundle  of  bank- 
notes which  he  had  lost  in  the  early  part  of  the 
evening.  Then  he  staked  two  and  three  hun- 
dred louis  at  a  time,  and  as  his  fantastic  luck 
never  failed  him,  he  soon  won  back  the  whole 
capital  that  had  constituted  his  inherited  fortune. 

In  his  haste  to  begin  the  game  he  had  not 
even  thought  of  taking  off  his  fur-lined  coat,  the 
great  pockets  of  which  were  now  swollen  with 
the  rolls  of  bank-notes,  and  heavy  with  the 
weight  of  the  gold.  Not  knowing  where  to 
put  the  money  that  was  steadily  accumulating 
before  him,  he  stuffed  it  away  in  the  inside  and 
outside  pockets  of  his  coat,  his  vest,  his  trousers, 
in  his  cigar-case,  his  handkerchief.  Everything 
became  a  recipient.  And  still  he  played  and 
still  he  won,  his  brain  whirling  the  while  like 
that  of  a  drunkard  or  a  madman.  It  was  amaz- 
ing to  see  him  stand  there  throwing  gold  on  the 
table  by  the  handful,  with  that  haughty  gesture  of 
absolute  certainty  and  disdain.  But  withal  there 
was  a  gnawing  at  his  heart,  something  that  felt 
like  a  red-hot  iron  there,  and  he  could  not  rid 
himself  of  the  vision  of  the  child  asleep  in  the 
snow,  —  the  child  whom  he  had  robbed. 

"  In  just  a  few  minutes,"  said  he,  "  I  will  go 
back  to  her.  She  must  be  there  in  the  same 
place.  Of  course  she  must  be  there.  It  is  no 


The  Louis-d'Or.  47 

crime,  after  all.  I  will  make  it  right  to  her, 
—  it  will  be  no  crime.  Quite  the  contrary.  I 
will  leave  here  in  a  few  moments,  when  the  clock 
strikes  again,  I  swear  it.  Just  as  soon  as  the 
clock  strikes  again  I  will  stop,  I  will  go  straight 
to  where  she  is,  I  will  take  her  up  in  my  arms 
and  will  carry  her  home  with  me  asleep.  I  have 
done  her  no  harm;.  I  have  made  a  fortune  for 
her.  I  will  keep  her  with  me  and  educate  her ; 
I  will  love  her  as  I  would  a  child  of  my  own, 
and  I  will  take  care  of  her,  —  always,  as  long 
as  she  lives  !  " 

But  the  clock  struck  one,  a  quarter  past,  half- 
past,  and  Lucien  was  still  there.  Finally,  a  few 
minutes  before  two  the  man  opposite  him  rose 
brusquely  and  said  in  a  loud  voice,  — 

"  The  bank  is  broken,  gentlemen ;  this  will  do 
for  to-night." 

Lucien  started,  and  wedging  his  way  brutally 
through  the  group  of  gamblers,  who  pressed 
around  him  in  envious  admiration,  hurried  out 
into  the  street  and  ran  as  fast  as  he  could  toward 
the  stone  bench.  In  a  moment  he  saw  by  the 
light  of  the  gas  that  the  child  was  still  there. 

"God  be  praised!"  said  he,  and  his  heart 
gave  a  great  throb  of  joy.  Yes,  here  she  was ! 
He  took  her  little  hand  in  his.  Poor  little  hand, 
how  cold  it  was  !  He  caught  her  under  the 
arms  and  lifted  her.  Her  head  fell  back,  but 


48  Christmas  Stories. 

she  did  not  awake.  "  The  happy  sleep  of  child- 
hood !  "  thought  he.  He  pressed  her  close  to 
his  breast  to  warm  her,  and  with  a  vague  pre- 
sentiment he  tried  to  rouse  her  from  this  heavy 
sleep  by  kissing  her  eyelids.  But  he  realized 
then  with  horror  that  through  the  child's  half- 
open  lids  her  eyes  were  dull,  glassy,  fixed.  A 
distracting  suspicion  flashed  through  his  mind. 
He  put  his  lips  to  the  child's  mouth  ;  he  felt  no 
breath. 

While  Lucien  had  been  building  a  fortune 
with  the  louis  stolen  from  this  little  one,  she, 
homeless  and  forsaken,  had  perished  with  cold. 

Lucien  felt  a  suffocating  knot  at  his  throat. 
In  his  anguish  he  tried  to  cry  out ;  and  in  the 
effort  which  he  made  he  awoke  from  his  night- 
mare, and  found  himself  on  the  leather  lounge  in 
the  gambling-room,  where  he  had  fallen  asleep  a 
little  before  midnight.  The  gar$on  of  the  den 
had  gone  home  at  about  five  o'clock,  and  out 
of  pity  had  not  wakened  him. 

A  misty  December  dawn  made  the  window- 
panes  pale.  Lucien  went  out,  pawned  his 
watch,  took  a  bath,  then  went  over  to  the  Bureau 
of  Recruits,  and  enlisted  as  a  volunteer  in  the 
First  Regiment  of  the  Chasseurs  d'Afrique. 

Lucien  de  Hem  is  now  a  lieutenant.  He  has 
not  a  cent  in  the  world  but  his  pay.  He  man- 
ages to  make  that  do,  however,  for  he  is  a  steady 


The  Louis-d'Or.  49 

officer,  and  never  touches  a  card.  He  even  con- 
trives to  economize,  it  would  seem ;  for  a  few 
days  ago  a  comrade,  who  was  following  him  up 
one  of  the  steep  streets  of  the  Kasba,  saw  him 
stop  to  lay  a  piece  of  money  in  the  lap  of  a  little 
Spanish  girl  who  had  fallen  asleep  in  a  door- 
way. His  comrade  was  startled  at  the  poor 
lieutenant's  generosity,  for  this  piece  of  money 
was  a  gold  louis. 


A   CHRISTMAS 

SUPPER   IN   THE 

MARAIS. 

From  the  French  of  ALPHONSE 
DAUDET 

MAJESTE,  a  seltzer- 
water  manufacturer  of 
the  Marais,  has  just  in- 
dulged in  a  little  Christ- 
mas supper  with  a  few 

friends  of  the  Place  Royale,  and  walks  home 
humming.  The  clock  at  St.  Paul's  strikes  two. 
"  How  late  it  is  !  "  thinks  the  good  man  as  he 
hurries  along.  But  the  pavement  is  slippery,  the 
streets  are  dark,  and  then,  in  this  devil  of  an 
old  neighborhood  which  belongs  to  the  time 
when  carriages  were  scarce,  there  are  the  great- 
est number  of  turns,  corners,  steps,  and  posts  in 
front  of  the  houses  for  the  accommodation  of 
horsemen,  all  of  which  are  calculated  to  impede 
a  man's  progress,  particularly  when  his  legs  are 
heavy  and  his  sight  somewhat  blurred  by  the 
toasts  of  the  Christmas  supper.  M.  Majeste 
reaches  his  destination  at  last,  however.  He 


52  Christmas  Stories. 

stops  before  a  great  doorway  above  which  gleams 
in  the  moonlight  the  freshly  gilded  coat-of-arms, 
the  recently  retouched  armorial-bearings  which 
he  has  converted  into  a  trade-mark. 

Former 
Hotel  de  Nesmond. 

MAJEST^,  JR., 
Seltzer-water  Manufacturer. 

The  old  Nesmond  coat-of-arms  stands  out,  re- 
splendent, on  all  the  siphons  of  the  factory,  on 
all  the  memoranda  and  letter-heads. 

The  doorway  leads  directly  to  the  court,  — 
a  large,  sunny  court  which  floods  the  narrow 
street  with  light  even  at  noon,  when  the  portals 
are  thrown  open.  Far  back  in  this  court  stands 
a  great  and  ancient  structure,  —  blackened  walls 
covered  with  lace-work  and  embroideries  of 
stone,  bulging  iron  balconies,  stone  balconies 
with  pilasters,  great  high  windows  crowned  with 
pediments,  and  capitals  rearing  their  heads  along 
the  upper  stories  like  so  many  little  roofs  within 
the  roof,  then  above  it  all,  set  in  the  very  slate, 
the  mansard  dormer-windows,  like  the  round  mir- 
rors of  a  boudoir,  daintily  framed  with  garlands. 
From  the  court  to  the  first  story  rises  a  great 
stone  stairway  gnawed  and  worn  green  by  the 
rains.  A  meagre  vine  dangles  along  the  wall, 
lifeless  and  black  like  the  rope  that  swings  from 


A  Christmas  Slipper  in  the  Marais.      53 

the  pulley  in  the  attic  ;  and  the  whole  has  an  in- 
describable air  of  sad  grandeur  and  decay. 

This  is  the  ancient  Hotel  de  Nesmond.  In 
the  broad  light  of  day  it  has  quite  a  different 
aspect.  The  words  "Office,"  "Store,"  "En- 
trance to  the  work-rooms,"  in  bright  gilt  letters, 
seem  to  rejuvenate  the  old  walls  and  infuse  a 
new  life  into  them.  The  drays  from  the  rail- 
road shake  the  iron  portals  as  they  rumble 
through,  and  the  clerks  step  out  on  the  landing 
to  receive  the  goods.  The  court  is  obstructed 
with  cases,  baskets,  straw,  wrappers,  and  pack- 
cloth.  One  is  conscious  of  being  in  a  factory. 
But  at  night,  in  the  death-like  stillness,  with  the 
winter  moon  casting  and  tangling  fantastic  shad- 
ows through  the  confused  intricacy  of  all  these 
roofs,  the  old  dwelling  of  the  Nesmonds  re- 
sumes its  lordly  air.  The  court  of  honor  seems 
to  expand  ;  the  wrought-iron  of  the  balconies 
looks  like  fine  lace  ;  the  old  stairway  is  full  of 
shadows  in  the  uncertain  light,  of  mysterious  re- 
cesses like  those  of  a  cathedral ;  there  are  empty 
niches  and  half  concealed  steps  that  suggest  an 
altar. 

On  this  particular  night  M.  Majeste  is  deeply 
impressed  with  the  grandeur  of  his  dwelling. 
The  echo  of  his  own  footsteps  startles  him  as 
he  crosses  the  great  deserted  court.  The  stair- 
way seems  even  broader  than  usual,  and  pecu- 


54  Christmas  Stones. 

liarly  heavy  to  climb.  But  that  is  the  Christmas 
supper,  no  doubt.  At  the  first  landing  he  stops 
to  take  breath  ;  he  leans  on  one  of  the  window- 
sills.  So  much  for  living  in  a  historic  mansion  ! 
M.  Majest^  is  certainly  not  a  poet,  oh,  no  ! 
and  still  as  he  gazes  around  him  at  this  lordly 
old  place,  which  seems  to  be  sleeping  so  peace- 
fully under  its  benumbed,  snow-hooded  roofs, 
as  he  looks  down  into  this  grand,  aristocratic 
old  court  which  the  moon  floods  with  a  bluish 
light,  weird  fancies  flash  through  his  brain. 

"  Suppose  the  Nesmonds  should  take  it  into 
their  heads  to  come  back,  eh  ? " 

Just  then  there  is  a  violent  pull  at  the  door-bell. 
The  portal  swings  open  instantly,  so  brusquely 
that  it  puts  out  the  light  of  the  lamp-post  in  the 
court.  From  the  shadow  of  the  doorway  come 
rustling  sounds  and  confused  whisperings.  There 
seems  to  be  a  great  crowd  wrangling  and  jostling 
to  get  in.  There  are  footmen,  a  multitude  of  foot- 
men, coaches  with  glass  panes  glimmering  in  the 
moonlight,  sedan-chairs  swaying  lightly  between 
two  torches  whose  long  flames  writhe  and  twist 
in  the  draught  of  the  doorway.  In  a  second 
the  court  is  crowded ;  but  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairway  the  confusion  ceases.  People  alight 
from  the  coaches,  recognize  one  another,  smile, 
bow,  and  make  their  way  up  the  stairs,  chatting 
softly  as  though  they  were  quite  familiar  with 


A   Christmas  Supper  in  the  Marais.      55 

the  house.  There  is  much  rustling  of  silks  and 
clanking  of  swords  on  the  landing,  and  billows 
of  white  hair,  heavy  and  dull  with  powder. 
Through  the  fairrt  sound  of  the  airy  tread  comes 
a  thin,  high  quiver  of  voices  and  little  peals  of 
laughter  that  has  lost  its  vibration.  All  these 
people  seem  old,  very  old,  —  eyes  that  have  lost 
their  fire,  slumbering  jewels  that  have  lost  their 
light,  antique  brocades  that  shimmer  with  a  sub- 
dued iridescence  in  the  light  of  the  torches, 
and  above  it  all  a  thin  mist  of  powder  that  rises 
at  every  courtesy  from  the  white-puffed  scaffold- 
ings of  these  stately  heads.  In  a  moment  the 
place  seems  to  be  haunted.  Torches  glitter 
from  window  to  window  and  up  and  down  the 
curving  stairways ;  the  very  dormers  in  the 
mansard  twinkle  with  joy  and  life.  The  whole 
mansion  is  ablaze  with  light,  as  though  a  great 
burst  of  sunset  had  set  its  windows  aglow. 

"  Merciful  saints  !  they  will  set  the  house  on 
fire  !  "  thinks  M.  Majeste  ;  and  having  recovered 
from  his  stupor,  he  makes  an  effort  to  shake 
the  numbness  from  his  legs,  and  hurries  down 
into  the  court,  where  the  footmen  have  just 
lighted  a  great  bonfire.  M.  Majeste"  goes  up 
to  them,  speaks  to  them  ;  but  they  do  not  an- 
swer ;  they  stand  there  chatting  among  them- 
selves softly,  and  not  the  faintest  breath  issues 
from  their  lips  into  the  freezing  shadow  of  the 


56  Christmas  Stories. 

night.  M.  Majeste  is  somewhat  put  out.  He  is 
reassured,  however,  when  he  realizes  that  this 
great  fire  with  its  long  straight  flames  is  a  most 
peculiar  fire,  which  emits  no  heat,  —  which  sim- 
ply glows,  but  does  not  burn.  The  good  man 
therefore  sets  his  mind  at  rest,  goes  upstairs 
again,  and  makes  his  way  into  the  store. 

These  stores  on  the  first  floor  must  have  been 
grand  reception-halls  in  their  day.  Particles  of 
tarnished  gold  still  cling  to  the  angles.  Mytho- 
logical frescos  circle  about  the  ceilings,  wind 
round  the  mirrors,  hover  above  the  doorways, 
vague  and  subdued,  like  bygone  memories.  Un- 
fortunately there  are  no  curtains  or  furniture 
anywhere,  nothing  but  baskets,  great  cases  filled 
with  leaden-headed  siphons,  and  the  withered 
limb  of  an  old  lilac  bush  rising  in  black  outline 
outside  the  window.  M.  Majeste  enters.  He 
finds  the  rooms  crowded  and  brilliantly  illumined. 
He  bows,  but  nobody  seems  to  notice  him.  The 
women,  in  their  satin  wraps,  lean  on  their  cava- 
liers' arms  and  flirt  with  ceremonious,  mincing 
graces.  They  promenade,  chat,  separate  into 
groups.  All  these  old  marquises  really  seem 
quite  at  home:  One  little  shade  stops,  all  of  a 
quiver,  before  a  painted  pier-glass ;  then  she 
glances  smilingly  at  a  Diana  that  rises  out  of 
the  wood-work,  lithe  and  roseate,  with  a  crescent 
on  her  brow. 


A   Christmas  Supper  in  the  Marais.      57 

"  This  is  I ;  think  of  it !    And  here  I  am  !  " 

"  Nesmond,  come  and  see  your  crest !  "  and 
they  laugh  immoderately  at  the  sight  of  the  Nes- 
mond coat-of-arms  displayed  on  the  wrappers 
above  the  name  of  Majeste,  Jr. 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha !  Majest6 !  There  are  some 
majesties  left  in  France  after  all,  then  !  " 

And  there  is  no  end  of  merriment,  of  mincing 
coquetries.  Little  trills  of  laughter  rise  like  the 
notes  of  a  flute  in  the  air.  Some  one  exclaims 
suddenly,  — 

"  Champagne  !    champagne  !  " 

"  Nonsense  ! " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  champagne.  Come,  Countess, 
what  say  you  to  a  little  Christmas  supper?" 

They  have  mistaken  M.  Majeste's  seltzer- 
water  for  champagne.  They  naturally  find  it 
somewhat  flat.  But  these  poor  little  ghosts  have 
such  unsteady  heads  !  The  foam  of  the  seltzer- 
water  somehow  excites  them  and  makes  them 
feel  like  dancing.  Minuets  are  immediately  or- 
ganized. Four  rare  violinists  provided  by  Nes- 
mond strike  out  with  an  old  melody  by  Rameau, 
full  of  triplets,  quaint  and  melancholy  in  its  viva- 
city ;  and  you  should  see  the  pretty  little  grand- 
mothers turn  slowly  and  bow  gravely  in  time 
with  the  music. 

Their  very  finery  seems  freshened  and  reju- 
venated by  the  sound,  and  so  do  the  waistcoats 


58  Christmas  Stories. 

of  cloth-of-gold,  the  brocaded  coats  and  dia- 
mond-buckled shoes.  The  panels  themselves 
seem  to  awake.  The  old  mirror,  scratched  and 
dim,  which  has  stood  encased  in  the  wall  for 
over  two  hundred  years,  recognizes  them  all, 
glows  softly  upon  them,  showing  them  their  own 
images  with  a  pale  vagueness  like  a  tender 
regret. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  elegance  M.  Majeste 
feels  somewhat  ill  at  ease.  He  is  huddled  in  a 
corner,  and  looks  on  from  behind  a  case  of  bot- 
tles. But  gradually  the  day  dawns.  Through 
the  glass  doors  of  the  store  one  can  see  the 
court  growing  light,  then  the  top  of  the  windows, 
then  all  one  side  of  the  great  parlor.  Before 
the  light  of  day  the  figures  melt  and  disappear. 
The  four  little  violinists  alone  are  belated  in  a 
corner ;  and  M.  Majeste  watches  them  evapo- 
rate as  the  daylight  creeps  upon  them.  In  the 
court  below  he  can  just  see  the  vague  form 
of  a  sedan-chair,  a  powdered  head  sprinkled 
with  emeralds,  and  the  last  spark  of  a  torch  that 
a  lackey  has  dropped  on  the  pavement,  and 
which  blends  with  the  sparks  from  the  wheels 
of  a  dray,  rumbling  in  noisily  through  the  open 
portals. 


THE    PRINCESS    AND  THE   RAGA- 
MUFFIN. 


From  the  Spanish  of  BENITO  PEREZ  GALDOS. 
I. 

^ACORRITO  MIGAJAS  was 
a  great  character.  He 
stood  a  trifle  over  two 
feet  from  the  ground,  and 
had  just  turned  his  seventh 
year.  His  skin  was  tanned 
by  the  sun  and  the  wind, 
and  his  wizened  face  sug- 
gested a  dwarf  rather 
than  a  child.  His  eyes, 

adorned  with  long  eyelashes  that  looked  like 
black  wires,  were  full  of  vitality  and  resplendent 
with  mischief.  His  mouth  was  amazing  in  its 
ugliness ;  and  his  ears,  strangely  like  those  of  a 
faun,  seemed  to  have  been  attached  to  his  face, 
rather  than  to  have  grown  there.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  shirt  of  every  possible  shade  of 
grime,  and  a  pair  of  patchwork  trousers  upheld 
by  a  single  suspender.  In  the  winter  he  wore  a 


60  Christmas  Stories. 

coat  which  he  had  inherited  from  his  grand- 
father. The  sleeves  had  been  cut  off  at  the 
elbow,  and  Pacorrito  considered  it  a  handsome 
fit,  as  overcoats  go.  A  rag  which  aspired  to 
be  a  muffler  was  wound  like  a  snake  round  and 
round  his  neck,  and  on  his  head  he  wore  a 
cap  which  he  had  picked  up  at  the  Rastro.  He 
had  little  use  for  shoes,  which  he  considered  in 
the  light  of  a  hindrance,  neither  did  he  wear 
stockings,  having  a  great  aversion  to  the  rough- 
ness of  the  threads. 

Pacorrito's  ancestors  could  not  have  been 
more  illustrious.  His  father,  accused  of  having 
attempted  to  make  his  way  into  a  house  through 
the  drain,  went  to  Ceuta  for  a  change  of  climate, 
and  died  there.  His  mother,  a  great  lady  who 
for  many  years  kept  a  chestnut-stand  in  the 
Cava  de  San  Miguel,  had  also  fallen  somehow 
into  the  hands  of  the  authorities,  and  after  much 
ado  with  judges  and  notaries,  had  repaired  to 
the  Alcala  jail.  Pacorrito  had  one  sister,  but 
this  last  relative  had  deserted  her  post  at  the 
tobacco  factory  and  flown  to  Sevilla  in  amorous 
pursuit  of  an  artillery  officer.  Up  to  the  present 
she  has  not  returned. 

Migajas  was  therefore  alone  in  the  world, 
with  no  protection  but  that  of  God,  and  no 
guide  but  his  own  will. 


The  Princess  and  the  Ragamuffin.        61 


II. 

The  pious  reader  need  not  fancy  that  Pacor- 
rito  was  in  the  least  daunted  or  disturbed  at 
finding  himself  alone ;  not  he.  In  his  brief 
career  he  had  had  occasion  to  study  the  ways  of 
the  world,  and  he  knew  a  thing  or  two  about  the 
fraud  and  vanity  of  life.  He  filled  himself  with 
energy  and  confronted  the  situation  like  a  hero. 
He  was  on  excellent  terms  with  numerous  per- 
sons of  his  age  and  quality,  and  even  with 
bearded  men,  who  seemed  disposed  to  protect 
him,  so  by  dint  of  push  he  got  the  better  of  his 
sad  condition. 

He  sold  matches,  newspapers,  and  lottery 
tickets,  —  three  branches  of  industry  which,  if  in- 
telligently pursued,  might  certainly  be  produc- 
tive of  honest  gain.  And  so  it  happened  that 
Pacorrito  was  never  in  want  of  a  penny  or  so  to 
assist  a  friend  in  need,  or  to  treat  his  acquaint- 
ances of  the  fair  sex. 

He  was  spared  all  domestic  worries,  all  house- 
hold cares  and  exigencies.  His  palaces  were 
the  Prado  in  summer,  and  the  portals  of  the 
casa  panaderia  in  winter.  By  nature  he  was 
frugal  and  wisely  inimical  to  the  pomps  of  the 
world.  He  slept  anywhere,  ate  whatever  he 
found,  just  as  the  birds  do,  and  suffered  no  anx- 


62  Christmas  Stories. 

iety  on  this  score,  because  of  the  religious  sub- 
misslveness  that  filled  his  soul,  and  his  instinc- 
tive faith  in  that  mysterious  Providence  which 
deserts  no  one,  great  or  small.  One  might  be 
apt  to  conclude  from  this  that  Migajas  was 
happy.  It  seems  natural  enough  that  he  should 
be.  He  was  deprived  of  relatives,  it  is  true,  but 
he  enjoyed  the  precious  boon  of  liberty.  As  his 
wants  were  few,  the  fruit  of  his  labor  kept  him  in 
plenty,  and  he  was  not  indebted  to  any  one  for 
anything.  His  sleep  was  disturbed  neither  by 
cares  nor  ambition.  He  was  poor  but  con- 
tented ;  his  body  was  destitute,  but  his  spirit  was 
rich  in  peace.  Well,  in  spite  of  all  this,  my 
lord  Pacorrito  was  unhappy.  Why?  Because 
he  was  in  love,  —  over  ears  in  love,  as  they  com- 
monly say. 

Yes,  sir,  this  very  Pacorrito,  who  was  so 
small,  so  ugly,  so  poor,  and  so  alone,  loved. 
Inexorable  law  of  life,  which  permits  no  being, 
whatever  his  condition,  to  elude  the  despotic 
yoke  of  love  !  With  a  mind  free  from  impure 
thoughts,  our  hero  loved.  He  loved  with  a 
dreamer's  idealism,  yet  at  times  he  felt  that  ar- 
dent fire  which  set  the  blood  boiling  like  the  very 
devil  in  his  veins.  The  object  of  his  thoughts 
aroused  every  variety  of  sensation  in  his  volcanic 
heart.  He  had  days  of  sweet  Platonicism,  like 
Petrarch,  then  again,  he  was  warm  and  impetu- 


The  Princess  and  the  Ragamuffin.         63 

ous,  like  Romeo.  And  who,  pray,  had  inspired 
Pacorrito  with  this  terrible  passion?  No  less  a 
person  than  a  great  lady  who  wore  silk  and  vel- 
vet gowns,  beautiful  furs  and  gold  eyeglasses,  — 
a  great  lady  with  flaxen  ringlets  that  fell  on  her 
alabaster  neck,  and  who  had  been  known  to  sit 
at  the  piano  for  three  days  in  succession. 

III. 

Who  was  this  celestial  beauty,  and  how  came 
Migajas  to  make  her  acquaintance  ?  This  is 
how  it  happened  :  Our  hero's  mercantile  opera- 
tions extended  over  a  great  part  of  one  of  the 
streets  opening  into  the  Puerta  del  Sol,  —  a  busy 
thoroughfare  lined  with  beautiful  shops,  the 
show-windows  of  which  are  resplendent  at  night, 
and  display  all  the  marvels  of  industry.  One  of 
these  stores,  which  is  kept  by  a  German,  is  al- 
ways full  of  exquisite  trifles  and  novelties.  It  is 
the  great  bazaar  of  childhood,  both  juvenile  and 
adult.  During  the  Carnival  it  is  hung  with  gro- 
tesque masks ;  in  Holy  Week  it  is  filled  with 
figures  of  saints  and  pious  images.  At  Christ- 
mas and  New  Year's  it  is  all  Bethlehem  man- 
gers and  Christmas-trees,  laden  with  toys  and 
magnificent  presents. 

Pacorrito's  mad  passion  began  when  the  Ger- 
man filled  his  show-window  with  the  most  en- 


64  Christmas  Stories. 

chanting  collection  of  richly  dressed  ladies  that 
Parisian  fancy  could  conceive.  Almost  all  of 
them  were  two  feet  tall.  Their  faces  were  of 
highly  refined  wax,  and  the  crimson  of  fresh 
roses  could  not  equal  the  glow  of  their  chaste 
cheeks.  Their  immobile  eyes  of  blue  glass  shone 
with  a  splendor  surpassing  that  of  the  human 
pupil.  Their  hair  of  softest  crimped  wool  could 
with  greater  justice  be  compared  to  the  rays  of 
the  sun  than  that  of  most  great  ladies  ;  and  the 
strawberries  of  April,  the  cherries  of  May,  and 
the  coral  from  the  deep  seas  were  ugly  things 
compared  to  their  lips.  Their  good  breeding 
and  deportment  were  such  that  they  never  stirred 
from  the  spot  where  they  were  placed.  They 
merely  creaked  the  wooden  joints  of  their  knees, 
their  shoulders,  and  their  elbows,  when  the  Ger- 
man sat  them  at  the  piano  or  made  them  raise 
their  eyeglasses  to  look  out  into  the  street. 
Otherwise  they  were  no  trouble  whatever,  and  no 
one  had  ever  heard  them  say,  "  This  month  is 
mine." 

There  was  one  among  them,  —  what  a  woman  ! 
She  was  the  tallest,  the  most  lithe,  the  most 
beautiful,  the  most  sympathetic,  the  most  ele- 
gant, —  in  a  word,  the  greatest  lady  of  them  all. 
She  was  no  doubt  a  person  of  high  degree, 
judging  from  her  grave,  grand  manner  and  that 
patronizing  air  which  was  so  becoming  to  her. 


The  Princess  and  the  Ragamuffin.        65 

"  Grand  woman  !  She  is  the  paragon  !  " 
thought  Pacorrito  the  first  time  he  saw  her,  and 
for  a  whole  hour  he  stood  before  the  show-win- 
dow, rooted  to  the  sidewalk. 


IV. 


Pacorrito  had  reached  the  state  of  emotional 
excitement,  the  delirium  peculiar  to  heroes  of 
romance.  His  brain  boiled ;  writhing,  sting- 
ing serpents  wound  themselves  around  his  heart ; 
his  mind  was  a  volcano  ;  he  despised  life ;  he 
longed  for  death  ;  he  soliloquized  ;  he  gazed  at 
the  moon ;  he  soared  beyond  the  seventh 
heaven.  Many  a  time  had  night  overtaken  him 
in  a  melancholy  ecstasy  before  the  show-win- 
dow, oblivious  to  everything,  oblivious  to  his 
very  business  interests.  It  might  be  well  to 
state  at  once  that  our  good  Migajas  met  with  no 
rebuff.  I  mean  that  his  mad  passion  was  to  a 
certain  extent  reciprocated.  Who  can  measure 
the  intensity  of  a  heart  of  tow  and  sawdust? 
The  world  is  full  of  mysteries.  Science  is  vain 
and  will  never  penetrate  the  depths  of  things. 
Who  will  draw  the  line  defining  the  exact  sphere 
of  the  inanimate?  Where  does  the  inanimate 
begin  ?  Down  with  the  pedant  who  stands  be- 
fore a  stone  or  a  cork  and  says,  "  Thou  hast  no 
soul."  God  alone  knows  the  true  dimensions  of 
5 


66  Christmas  Stories. 

the  invisible  limbo,  wherein  rests  all  that  which 
does  not  love. 

Pacorrito  was  quite  sure  of  having  stirred  his 
lady's  pulse.  She  gazed  at  him,  and  without 
moving  a  muscle,  opening  her  mouth,  or  winking 
an  eye,  she  spoke  soulful  things  to  him,  now 
sweet  as  hope,  now  sad  like  the  prescience  of 
tragic  events.  This  naturally  fanned  the  flame 
that  burned  in  our  friend's  heart,  and  his  daring 
imagination  conceived  dramatic  plans  of  con- 
quest, and  even  of  matrimony. 

One  night  the  faithful  lover  repaired  punc- 
tually to  the  tryst.  The  lady  was  seated  at  the 
piano,  her  hands  suspended  over  the  keys,  and 
her  divine  face  turned  to  the  street.  The  raga- 
muffin and  she  exchanged  glances ;  and  what 
passion,  what  idealism,  in  that  look  !  Sighs  and 
tender  thoughts  were  following  one  another, 
when  an  event  occurred  which  clipped  the 
thread  of  this  sweet  communion  and  shattered 
at  one  blow  the  happiness  of  both  lovers.  It 
was  one  of  those  sudden  catastrophes  that  inflict 
a  mortal  wound  and  lead  to  suicides,  tragedies, 
and  other  lamentable  things. 

A  hand  proceeding  from  the  interior  of  the 
shop  was  thrust  into  the  show-window  ;  it  caught 
the  lady  by  the  belt  and  disappeared  with  her 
within.  Pacorrito's  amazement  was  followed  by 
a  sense  of  misery  so  intense  that  he  longed  to 


The  Princess  and  the  Ragamuffin.        67 

die  there  and  then.  To  see  the  object  of  his 
love  vanish  as  though  she  had  been  swallowed 
by  the  insatiable  grave,  to  be  unable  to  rescue 
her  or  follow  her,  were  it  to  the  bottomless  pit, 
ah,  here  was  a  blow  which  was  beyond  human 
endurance ! 

Migajas  was  about  to  drop  on  the  sidewalk. 
He  thought  of  suicide  ;  he  invoked  God  and  the 
Devil. 

"  They  have  sold  her  !  "  he  muttered  hoarsely ; 
and  he  pulled  his  hair  and  scratched  his  face 
and  kicked,  and  as  he  did  so  he  dropped  his 
matches,  his  lottery  tickets,  and  his  newspapers. 
Worldly  interests,  you  are  not  worth  a  sigh  ! 

V. 

After  a  time,  when  he  had  recovered  from  his 
violent  emotion,  he  glanced  toward  the  interior 
of  the  store  and  saw  two  or  three  grown  persons 
and  several  little  girls  talking  with  the  German. 
One  of  these  little  girls  held  in  her  arms  the 
lady  of  his  thoughts.  He  felt  like  rushing  upon 
them  frantically,  but  he  forbore,  for  it  occurred 
to  him  that  his  appearance  was  not  in  his  favor, 
and  that  there  would  be  every  chance  of  his  get- 
ting a  sound  drubbing  and  being  handed  over 
to  the  police.  He  stood  rooted  to  the  threshold, 
meditating  upon  the  horrors  of  the  slave-trade, 


68  Christmas  Stories. 

upon  this  heinous  Tyrolese  institution  wherein  a 
few  dollars  decided  the  fate  of  honest  creatures, 
exposing  them  to  the  savage  destructiveness  of 
ill-bred  children.  Human  nature  appeared  to 
him  in  all  its  baseness.  Those  who  had  pur- 
chased the  lady  left  the  shop  and  entered  a  lux- 
urious carriage.  And  how  they  laughed,  the 
wretches  !  Even  the  wee  fellow,  the  most 
petted  and  spoiled  of  them  all,  no  doubt,  took 
the  liberty  of  pulling  the  unfortunate  doll  by  the 
arms,  although  he  had  the  greatest  quantity  of 
toys  appropriate  to  his  age  and  for  his  own  ex- 
clusive enjoyment.  The  grown  persons,  too, 
seemed  satisfied  with  the  new  acquisition. 

While  the  footman  stood  by  to  receive  orders, 
Pacorrito,  who  was  a  person  of  heroic  and  daring 
resolutions,  conceived  the  idea  of  swinging  be- 
hind the  carriage.  This  he  did  with  that  agility 
peculiar  to  the  ragamuffin  when  he  wishes  to 
take  a  ride  across  the  city. 

Stretching  his  neck  to  the  right,  he  saw  the 
arm  of  the  lady  who  had  been  sacrificed  to  lucre 
sticking  out  of  the  window.  This  rigid  arm  and 
its  pink  fist  spoke  forcibly  to  his  imagination, 
calling  to  him  through  the  rumble  of  the  wheels  : 

"  Save  me,  save  me,  my  Pacorrito  !  " 


The  Princess  and  the  Ragamuffin.        69 


VI. 

Under  the  archway  of  the  great  dwelling  be- 
fore which  the  carriage  stopped,  Pacorrito's  illu- 
sion vanished.  A  servant  informed  him  that  if 
he  soiled  the  flagstones  with  his  muddy  feet,  he 
would  have  his  back-bone  broken.  Migajas  re- 
tired before  this  overwhelming  argument,  but 
from  that  instant  his  heart  was  filled  with  a 
scorching  thirst  for  vengeance.  His  fiery  na- 
ture impelled  him  forward  into  the  night  of  the 
unforeseen,  into  the  arms  of  his  fortune.  His  soul 
was  well  fitted  to  noisy  and  dramatic  adventures, 
so  what  should  he  do  but  make  a  compact  with 
those  who  removed  the  garbage  from  the  house 
where  his  beloved  lived  enslaved ;  and  by  this 
means  —  which  may  not  have  been  altogether 
poetical,  but  which  revealed  the  shrewdness  of  a 
heart  as  big  as  the  top  of  a  pine-tree  —  he  found 
his  way  into  the  palace.  How  his  heart  throbbed 
as  he  went  up  the  stairs  and  into  the  kitchen  ! 
The  thought  of  being  near  her  confused  him  so 
that  more  than  once  his  basket  fell  from  his 
hand,  spilling  its  contents  down  the  steps.  But 
nowhere  could  he  see  his  lady-love.  He  often 
heard  the  screams  of  children  at  play,  but  noth- 
ing more. 

The   servants,   because  he    was  so  little  and 


yo  Christmas  Stories. 

so  ugly,  played  many  a  trick  upon  him.  One 
alone,  who  seemed  more  compassionate  than 
the  rest,  gave  him  sweetmeats.  One  cold  morn- 
ing the  cook,  through  pity  or  through  sheer  wick- 
edness perhaps,  gave  him  a  draught  of  wine  that 
was  as  biting  and  fiery  as  the  very  devil.  The 
ragamuffin  felt  a  warm  and  delightful  current 
run  through  his  whole  body  while  hot  vapors 
rose  to  his  head.  His  legs  trembled  ;  his  limp 
arms  fell  beside  him  in  voluptuous  abandon. 
A  stream  of  playful  laughter  rose  from  his  heart 
and  gurgled  from  his  lips  ;  and  Pacorrito  held  on 
to  the  wall  with  both  hands  to  keep  from  falling. 
A  vigorous  kick  somewhat  modified  his  mirth, 
and  he  left  the  kitchen.  His  brain  was  topsy- 
turvy. He  had  no  idea  where  his  steps  were 
leading  him.  He  ran  along  staggering  and 
laughing,  first  over  cold  tiles,  then  over  smooth 
boarded  floors,  then  over  soft,  warm  carpets. 
Suddenly  he  caught  sight  of  an  object  on  the 
floor.  He  stood  petrified  for  a  second  ;  then 
he  uttered  a  roar  of  pain  and  fell  upon  his 
knees.  Heavens  !  There,  stretched  before  him 
like  a  corpse,  with  a  crack  through  her  alabaster 
brow,  a  broken  arm,  and  dishevelled  locks,  was 
the  lady  of  his  thoughts. 

For  a  moment  our  hero  was  speechless.  His 
voice  was  smothered  in  his  throat.  He  pressed 
the  cold  body  to  his  heart  and  covered  it  with 


The  Princess  and  the  Ragamuffin.         71 

burning  kisses.  The  lady's  eyes  were  open, 
and  she  gazed  with  melancholy  tenderness  at 
her  faithful  lover,  for  she  lived,  in  spite  of  her 
wounds.  Pacorrito  knew  it  by  the  singular 
light  of  her  calm  blue  eyes,  that  emitted  little 
flames  of  love  and  gratitude. 

"  Senora,  let  me  know  who  reduced  you  to  this 
sad  condition  !  "  he  exclaimed  in  pathetic  and 
anguished  tones.  His  pain  was  soon  followed 
by  a  burst  of  rage,  and  he  thought  of  the  great 
revenge  he  would  take  upon  the  perpetrators  of 
the  iniquity.  Just  then  he  heard  footsteps  ap- 
proaching, so  he  tucked  the  lady  under  his  arm 
and  started  on  a  run.  He  went  down  the  stairs, 
crossed  the  court,  and  broke  into  the  street.  He 
could  scarcely  be  said  to  be  running;  he  was 
flying,  like  a  bird  that  has  stolen  grain,  heard  a 
report,  and  feeling  itself  unhurt,  determines  to 
put  the  greatest  possible  distance  between  itself 
and  the  gun.  He  ran  past  one,  two,  three,  ten 
streets,  till  he  thought  he  was  far  enough  away 
to  be  in  safety,  and  then  stopped  to  rest,  laying 
the  object  of  his  insensate  tenderness  upon  his 
knees. 

VII. 

Night  came  upon  him,  and  he  welcomed  with 
delight  the  soft  shadows  that  hid  the  daring  act 
and  protected  his  love.  He  examined  her  in- 


72  Christmas  Stones. 

jured  body  carefully,  and  concluded  that  the 
wounds  were  not  serious,  although  one  might 
have  seen  her  brain,  had  she  had  one,  through 
the  opening  in  her  skull,  and  the  sawdust  of  her 
heart  poured  out  in  copious  streams  through  the 
rents  in  her  breast.  Her  gown  was  in  shreds, 
and  part  of  her  hair  had  been  dropped  in  the 
hasty  flight.  His  soul  overflowed  with  sorrow 
when  he  realized  that  he  had  not  the  money 
with  which  to  meet  the  situation.  As  he  had 
given  up  his  business,  naturally  his  pockets  were 
empty,  and  a  loved  woman,  particularly  if  she 
is  in  poor  health,  is  a  source  of  unlimited  ex- 
pense. Migajas  laid  his  hand  sadly  upon  that 
part  of  his  rags  wherein  he  had  habitually  kept 
his  coin,  but  nothing  was  there. 

"  At  this  critical  moment,"  thought  he,  "  when 
I  need  a  house,  a  bed,  a  world  of  doctors  and 
surgeons,  an  abundance  of  food,  a  bright  fire 
and  a  dressmaker,  I  have  nothing  —  nothing  !  " 

But  as  he  was  very  tired,  he  laid  his  head 
upon  his  idol's  body  and  fell  asleep  like  an 
angel. 

Then  a  great  miracle  took  place.  The  lady 
began  to  revive,  and  finally  rising  to  her  feet, 
showed  Pacorrito  a  smiling  countenance.  The 
wound  had  disappeared  from  her  noble  brow  ; 
her  lithe  form  was  without  a  rent,  her  gown  neat 
and  whole.  On  her  curled  and  perfumed  locks 


The  Princess  and  the  Ragamuffin.        73 

she  wore  a  coquettish  hat  trimmed  with  minute 
flowers,  —  in  a  word,  she  stood  before  him  in  all 
her  beauty  just  as  he  had  known  her  in  the  show- 
window. 

Migajas  was  dazzled,  stupefied,  dumb.  He 
fell  on  his  knees  and  worshipped  her  as  people 
do  a  divinity.  Then  she  took  the  ragamuffin  by 
the  hand,  and  in  a  voice  clear,  pure,  and  sweeter 
than  the  song  of  the  nightingale,  she  said  to 
him,  — 

"  Pacorrito,  follow  me  !  I  want  to  show  you 
my  gratitude,  and  tell  you  of  the  sublime  love 
with  which  you  have  inspired  me.  You  have 
been  loyal,  constant,  generous,  heroic ;  you  have 
rescued  me  from  the  power  of  those  Vandals 
that  tortured  me.  You  deserve  my  heart  and 
my  hand.  Come,  follow  me  !  Do  not  be  fool- 
ish; do  not  think  you  are  inferior  to  me  be- 
cause you  are  in  rags." 

Migajas  gazed  at  the  lady's  elegant,  luxurious 
attire  and  said  sadly,  "  My  lady,  where  can  I 
go  in  this  dress?  " 

The  lady  -did  not  answer ;  she  merely  led  Pa- 
corrito by  the  hand  into  a  mysterious  region  of 
shadows. 

The  ragamuffin  soon  found  himself  in  a  grand 
parlor  brilliantly  illumined  and  filled  with  beauti- 
ful objects.  The  first  moment  of  bewilderment 
passed,  he  distinguished  a  thousand  different 


74  Christmas  Stories. 

figures  and  statuettes,  like  those  that  peopled 
the  shop  in  which  he  had  seen  his  beloved  for 
the  first  time.  What  greatly  surprised  him  was 
to  see  all  the  fine  ladies  who  in  shimmering 
gowns  had  occupied  the  show-window  with  his 
friend  come  forth  to  meet  them.  His  lady  ac- 
cepted their  homage  with  grave  and  ceremoni- 
ous courtesy.  She  seemed  to  belong  to  a  higher 
caste  than  they.  Her  queenly  manner,  her  proud 
though  not  haughty  bearing,  suggested  dominion. 
She  immediately  presented  Pacorrito.  For  his 
part  he  was  much  confused  and  grew  redder 
than  a  poppy  when  the  princess,  taking  his  hand, 
said,  — 

"  Allow  me  to  present  to  you  the  Senor  Don 
Pacorrito  de  las  Migajas,  who  will  honor  us  with 
his  presence  to-night." 

The  wings  of  his  heart  drooped,  as  they  say, 
when  he  compared  the  luxury  that  surrounded 
him  with  his  own  poverty,  his  rags,  his  bare  feet, 
his  torn  trousers  upheld  by  a  single  suspender, 
and  his  coat- sleeves  cut  off  at  the  elbow. 

"  I  can  divine  your  thoughts,"  said  the  prin- 
cess, aside.  "  Your  dress  is  not  the  most  appro- 
priate for  a  celebration  like  this.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  you  are  not  presentable." 

"Senora,  that  deuced  tailor  of  mine,"  stam- 
mered Migajas,  "  has  been  false  to  his  word, 
and  —  " 


The  Princess  and  the  Ragamuffin.         75 

"  Never  mind ;  we  will  dress  you  here,"  said 
the  noble  lady. 

The  valets  in  this  strange  mansion  were  tiny 
and  very  comical  monkeys.  Wee  parrots  of  the 
kind  known  as  perricos  acted  as  pages,  to  say 
nothing  of  a  great  number  of  paper  birds.  They 
immediately  set  to  work  to  repair,  as  far  as  it 
was  possible,  Pacorrito's  unfortunate  appearance. 
They  slipped  his  feet  into  a  pair  of  tiny  gilded 
match-boxes  that  made  the  most  stylish  boots ; 
they  cut  a  neck-cloth  for  him  out  of  half  a  little 
red  paper  lantern  and  turned  an  osier  flower-pot 
into  a  sort  of  pastoral  hat  which  they  trimmed 
elaborately  with  flowers.  As  Pacorrito  had  never 
been  decorated,  they  took  a  metal  plate  from 
an  elegant  Kepi  and  hung  it  around  his  neck, 
by  way  of  a  decoration,  and  also  a  match-box, 
which  was  round  and  looked  like  a  watch,  and 
the  cut-glass  stopper  of  a  small  bottle  of  per- 
fumery. The  paper  birds  conceived  the  happy 
thought  of  putting  an  ivory  paper-cutter  in  his 
belt,  to  figure  as  a  sword  or  dagger.  Thanks  to 
these  and  numerous  other  inventions  for  con- 
cealing his  tatters,  our  friend  looked  so  hand- 
some that  no  one  would  have  recognized  him. 
As  he  caught  sight  of  himself  in  the  mirror-top 
of  a  work-box,  he  swelled  with  pride.  He  was 
radiant. 


76  Christmas  Stories. 


VIII. 

The  ball  now  began.  A  number  of  canaries 
from  their  respective  cages  sang  waltzes  and 
habaneras.  The  cornets  and  the  clarionets 
too  were  very  skilful  in  pressing  their  keys  all 
by  themselves ;  the  violins  pinched  their  own 
strings  ;  and  the  trumpets  blew  into  each  other. 
Migajas  thought  this  music  was  entrancing.  It 
is  unnecessary  to  say  that  the  princess  danced 
with  him.  The  other  ladies  found  partners 
among  the  officers  of  the  army  and  the  sover- 
eigns who  had  left  their  horses  outside.  Among 
these  were  Prince  Bismarck,  the  Emperor  of 
Germany,  and  Napoleon.  Migajas  was  beside 
himself  with  pride  and  excitement.  It  would 
be  impossible  to  describe  the  emotions  of  his 
soul  as  he  dashed  into  the  dizzy  whirls  of 
the  waltz  with  his  beloved  in  his  arms.  Her 
soft  breathing  and  an  occasional  stray  lock 
of  her  golden  hair  caressed  his  cheek,  tickling 
him  gently  and  producing  a  strange  intoxica- 
tion. A  loving  glance  or  a  little  sigh  of  fatigue 
would  every  now  and  then  put  a  climax  to  his 
madness. 

Suddenly  the  monkeys  appeared  and  an- 
nounced supper.  This  caused  a  great  com- 
motion. Migajas  rejoiced  greatly,  for  with  no 


The  Princess  and  the  Ragamuffin.        77 

prejudice  to  the  spiritual  character  of  his  love, 
the  poor  little  fellow  was  very  hungry. 


IX. 

The  dining-hall  was  superb  and  the  table  ex- 
quisite. The  china  was  of  the  very  finest  manu- 
factured for  dolls,  and  a  multitude  of  bouquets 
showed  their  colors  and  scattered  their  fragrance 
from  egg-stands  and  thimbles.  Pacorrito  sat  at 
the  princess's  right.  They  began  to  eat.  The 
parrots  and  paper  birds  waited  upon  them  with 
such  order  and  rapidity  that  they  seemed  like 
soldiers  drilling  before  their  general.  The  dishes 
were  delicious.  Everything  was  raw,  or  at  all 
events  cold.  Migajas  was  rather  pleased  with 
the  supper  at  first,  but  he  was  soon  surfeited. 
The  menu  was  as  follows  :  bits  of  sponge  cake, 
turkeys  smaller  than  birds,  which  one  could 
swallow  at  a  mouthful,  gilt-heads  no  bigger  than 
almonds,  a  rich  supply  of  hemp-seed,  a  pate 
of  bird-seed  a  la  Canaria,  bread-crumb  \  la 
perdigona,  a  fricassee  of  pheasants'  eyes  with 
a  sauce  of  wild  mulberries,  a  salad  of  moss, 
delicious  sweetmeats,  and  every  possible  variety 
of  fruit,  harvested  by  the  parrots  from  the  tap- 
estries where  they  were  embroidered,  the  melons 
being  as  small  as  grapes  and  the  grapes  as  small 
as  lentils.  During  the  supper  the  company  chat- 


7  8  Christmas  Stories. 

tered  ceaselessly,  —  all  but  Migajas,  who,  being 
short  of  wit,  sat  there  and  said  never  a  word. 
He  was  confused  in  the  presence  of  so  many 
gold-corded  and  uniformed  generals.  He  was 
amazed,  too,  at  finding  so  much  loquacity  and 
frolicsomeness  in  these  great  men,  who  had 
stood  stiff  and  dumb  in  the  show-window  as 
though  they  were  made  of  clay. 

The  one  known  as  Bismarck,  in  particular, 
never  stopped  to  draw  breath.  He  said  the 
wildest  things  imaginable,  pounded  the  table 
with  his  fist,  and  threw  bread  balls  at  the  prin- 
cess. He  flung  his  arms  about  most  marvel- 
lously, just  as  though  a  string  were  attached  to 
their  hinges,  and  somebody  under  the  table  had 
hold  of  it. 

"  What  fun  I  am  having  ! "  said  the  chan- 
cellor. "  My  dear  princess,  when  a  man  spends 
his  life  adorning  a  mantel-piece  in  the  cheerful 
company  of  a  clock,  a  bronze  figure,  and  a  pot 
of  begonias,  he  really  needs  recreation ;  and  at  a 
festival  like  this  he  lays  in  a  supply  of  mirth  for 
the  year." 

"  Ah,  happy,  a  thousand  times  happy,  they 
whose  only  duty  consists  in  adorning  mantel- 
pieces !  "  said  the  lady,  in  melancholy  tones.  "  It 
may  be  wearisome,  but  you  do  not  at  least  suf- 
fer as  we  do,  —  we  whose  lives  are  a  prolonged 
martyrdom  ;  we,  the  toys  of  the  small  men. 


The  Princess  and  the  Ragamuffin.        79 

It  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  make  you  un- 
derstand, Prince  Bismarck,  what  we  suffer  when 
one  pulls  our  right  arm,  another  our  left ;  when 
this  one  cracks  our  head,  that  one  quarters  us 
or  leaves  us  in  the  water  to  soak,  or  rips  us  open 
to  find  out  what  is  inside  of  us  !  " 

"  I  can  imagine  it,"  said  the  chancellor,  open- 
ing his  arms  and  clapping  them  together  several 
times. 

"  How  unfortunate  !  "  said  Espartero  and  two 
of  the  emperors  at  once. 

"  I  was  the  least  unfortunate  of  all,"  said  the 
lady,  "  for  I  found  a  friend  and  protector  in  the 
valorous  and  faithful  Migajas,  who  managed  to 
save  me  from  the  barbarous  torture." 

Pacorrito  blushed  to  the  very  roots  of  his 
hair. 

"  Valorous  and  faithful !  "  repeated  all  the 
dolls,  in  admiring  chorus. 

"And  therefore  to-night,  when  our  Genius 
Creator  permits  us  to  come  together  for  this  great 
celebration,  I  chose  to  honor  him  by  bringing  him 
with  me  and  offering  him  my  hand  as  a  sign  of 
alliance  and  reconciliation  between  the  lineage 
of  dolls  and  that  of  well-bred,  compassionate 
children." 


8o  Christmas  Stories. 


X. 


At  this  Prince  Bismarck  looked  at  Pacorrito 
with  an  expression  of  such  malignity  and  sarcasm 
that  our  illustrious  hero  was  filled  with  wrath. 
At  the  same  instant  this  wretch  of  a  chancel- 
lor aimed  a  bread  ball  at  Migajas,  and  fired  it 
so  accurately  that  the  bridegroom  came  near 
being  blinded  for  life.  But  Migajas  was  a  pro- 
totype of  prudence  and  circumspection,  so  he 
controlled  his  feelings  and  was  silent.  The 
princess  threw  him  a  glance  of  love  and 
gratitude. 

"  What  fun  I  am  having  !  "  repeated  the  chan- 
cellor, clapping  his  wooden  hands  together. 
"  Before  it  is  time  to  resume  our  place  beside 
the  clock  and  listen  to  its  unceasing  tic-tac,  let 
us  fathom  the  depths  of  pleasure  and  intoxica- 
tion, —  let  us  be  happy  !  If  the  Senor  Pacor- 
rito would  favor  us  by  calling  the  daily  paper, 
we  might  laugh  a  little." 

"The  Senor  de  Migajas,"  said  the  princess, 
kindly,  "  did  not  come  here  to  make  us  laugh. 
But  there  is  no  reason  why  we  should  not  enjoy 
hearing  him  call  out  the  paper  or  even  matches 
if  he  is  willing  to  do  so." 

The  ragamuffin  could  find  no  words  with 
which  to  answer  his  beloved.  He  was  sorely 


The  Princess  and  the  Ragamuffin.        81 

incensed  at  the  proposition,  which  he  judged  to 
be  a  fling  at  his  dignity  and  decorum. 

"  Let  him  dance  ! "  shouted  the  chancellor, 
impertinently ;  "  let  him  dance  on  the  table ! 
and  if  he  refuse  to  do  so,  I  move  that  he  be 
stripped  of  the  fine  clothes  we  dressed  him  in, 
and  be  left  ragged  and  barefooted  as  he  was 
when  he  came." 

Migajas  felt  all  his  blood  rush  to  his  heart. 
He  was  blind  with  rage.  "  Do  not  be  cruel,  my 
dear  prince,"  said  the  princess,  smiling  ;  "  leave 
him  to  me.  I  will  take  it  upon  myself  to  dispel 
the  storm  that  is  rising  within  our  good  Migajas 
here." 

A  loud  peal  of  laughter  greeted  this  reply,  and 
all  the  dolls,  and  the  most  celebrated  generals 
and  emperors  of  the  world,  simultaneously  fell 
to  pounding  one  another's  heads  like  the  Punch 
and  Judy  puppets. 

"  Make  him  dance  !  make  him  call  matches  !  " 
they  clamored. 

Migajas  felt  faint.  The  sentiment  of  dignity 
was  so  powerfully  developed  in  him  that  he 
would  have  died  rather  than  have  gone  through 
the  suggested  degradation.  He  was  just  about 
to  reply  when  the  malignant  chancellor,  pulling 
a  long  thin  straw  from  a  work-basket  and  wetting 
the  end  of  it  in  his  mouth,  drove  it  into  Pa- 
corrito's  ear  with  such  a  quick  movement  that 
6 


82  Christmas  Stories. 

the  latter  did  not  realize  the  familiarity  of  the 
act  until  he  had  suffered  the  nervous  shock 
produced  by  tricks  of  this  sort. 

Blind  with  rage,  he  put  his  hand  to  his  belt 
and  drew  the  paper-cutter.  The  ladies  shrieked 
and  the  princess  fainted ;  but  the  enraged  Mi- 
gajas,  far  from  being  pacified  by  this,  seemed 
to  be  growing  more  and  more  infuriated,  and 
rushing  upon  his  insolent  adversary,  he  began  to 
deal  blows  right  and  left.  The  air  was  filled 
with  yells,  threats,  and  imprecations.  The  par- 
rots croaked  and  the  very  birds  moved  their 
paper  tails  in  sign  of  panic. 

Nobody  laughed  now  at  the  daring  Migajas. 
A  few  moments  later  the  chancellor  might  have 
been  seen  going  about  gathering  up  his  arms 
and  legs  (a  strange  case  which  cannot  be  ex- 
plained), and  all  the  emperors  were  noseless. 
They  gradually,  however,  with  a  little  glue  and  a 
great  deal  of  innate  skill,  mended  one  another, 
—  a  rare  advantage,  this,  of  puppet  surgery. 
The  princess,  having  recovered  from  her  swoon 
through  the  virtue  of  smelling-salts,  administered 
by  her  pages  in  a  filbert-shell,  called  the  raga- 
muffin aside,  and  leading  him  to  her  private 
apartments,  spoke  as  follows :  — 


The  Princess  and  the  Ragamuffin.        83 


XL 


"  Most  illustrious  Migajas,  what  you  have  just 
done,  far  from  lessening  my  love  for  you,  has 
only  increased  it,  for  you  have  given  evidence  of 
indomitable  valor  by  your  easy  triumph  over 
this  swarm  of  scoffing  puppets,  the  most  despi- 
cable class  of  beings  on  earth.  The  tender  senti- 
ments that  bind  me  to  you  move  me  to  propose 
that  you  become  my  husband  with  no  further 
delay." 

Pacorrito  fell  on  his  knees. 

"  As  soon  as  we  are  married,  the  emperors  and 
chancellors  will  all  venerate  you  as  they  do  me, 
for  I  must  tell  you  that  I  am  queen  of  this  divi- 
sion of  the  world.  My  titles  are  not  usurped  ; 
they  are  transmitted  by  the  divine  law  of  pup- 
pets established  by  the  Supreme  Genius  that 
created  us  and  governs  us." 

"  My  lady,"  Migajas  said,  or  tried  to  say, 
"  my  happiness  is  so  great  that  I  cannot  ex- 
press it." 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  the  lady,  with  great 
majesty,  "  since  you  are  willing  to  become  my 
husband,  and  consequently  prince  and  lord  of 
this  puppet  kingdom,  I  must  inform  you  that  in 
order  to  do  so  you  will  have  to  renounce  your 
human  personality." 


84  Christmas  Stones. 

"  I  do  not  exactly  grasp  your  Majesty's  mean- 
ing," said  the  ragamuffin. 

"You  belong  to  the  human  race.  I  do  not 
Our  natures  being  different,  we  cannot  unite. 
There  is  but  one  way  Give  up  your  humanity. 
It  is  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world,  believe  me. 
It  is  only  necessary  that  you  will  it.  Now,  an- 
swer me.  Pacorrito.  son  of  man.  will  you  be 
a  puppet?" 

The  peculiar  nature  of  this  request  set  the 
ragamuffin  to  thinking  for  a  few  seconds. 

"  And  what  does  this  thing  of  being  a  puppet 
consist  in  ? " 

"You  will  be  like  me.  Our  nature  is  per- 
haps nearer  perfection  than  yours.  We  are  to 
all  appearances  devoid  of  life,  but  we  live,  be- 
lieve me.  To  the  imperfect  senses  of  man  we 
lack  movement,  words,  affection,  but  this  is  far 
from  being  the  case.  You  have  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  judging  how  we  move,  how  we  speak, 
and  how  we  feel.  Our  fate,  for  the  present  at 
least,  is  not  a  very  happy  one.  We  are  the  toys 
of  your  children,  and  even  your  men,  but  as 
a  compensation  for  this  disadvantage  we  are 
eternal." 
"Eternal!" 

"  Yes  ;  we  live  forever.  When  these  wicked 
children  of  yours  break  us,  we  rise  with  a  new 
life  out  of  our  destruction,  and  are  born  anew, 


The  Princess  and  the  Ragamuffin.        85 

describing  a  mysterious  and  everlasting  circle 
from  the  shop  to  the  children,  from  them  to  the 
Tyrolese  factory,  and  thence  to  the  shop  again 
through  the  ages  everlasting." 

"  Through  the  ages  everlasting !  "  repeated 
Migajas,  absorbed. 

"  It  is  not  always  rose-color  with  us  ;  but,  on 
the  other  hand,  you  see,  we  do  not  know  death, 
and  then  our  Genius  Creatoi  permits  us  to  meet 
at  certain  great  festivals  to  celebrate  the  glory  of 
our  race,  as  we  have  done  to-night.  We  cannot 
elude  the  laws  of  our  being,  —  it  is  not  given  us 
to  enter  the  reign  of  humanity,  although  men 
can  easily  enter  ours,  and  in  fact  have  very  often 
been  known  to  become  puppets." 

"  A  most  extraordinary  thing  !  "  exclaimed 
Pacorrito,  full  of  amazement. 

"You  know  the  requirements  of  puppet  ini- 
tiation. I  have  nothing  more  to  say.  Our  dog- 
mas are  very  simple.  Now,  meditate  upon  it, 
and  answer  my  question,  Will  you  be  a  doll?" 

The  princess's  attitude  was  that  of  a  priestess 
of  antiquity.  Pacorrito  was  captivated. 

"  I  want  to  be  a  doll,"  declared  the  ragamuffin, 
resolutely. 

The  princess  then  proceeded  to  trace  diaboli- 
cal characters  in  the  air,  and  to  utter  great  words 
which  Pacorrito  had  never  heard  before,  and 
which  were  neither  Latin,  Chinese,  nor  Chal- 


86  Christmas  Stories. 

dean.  He  concluded  that  they  were  Tyrolese. 
When  this  was  consummated,  the  lady  threw  her 
arms  about  Migajas,  saying,  — 

"  Now  you  are  my  husband.  I  have  the 
power  of  marrying,  and  also  of  receiving  neo- 
phytes into  our  Great  Law.  My  darling  little 
prince,  may  you  be  blessed  through  time  ever- 
lasting !  "  And  the  whole  court  of  figures  en- 
tered, singing,  "Through  time  everlasting!" 
to  the  accompaniment  of  canaries  and  nightin- 
gales. 

XII. 

They  all  promenaded  through  the  parlors  in 
couples.  Migajas  gave  his  arm  to  his  royal 
consort. 

"  What  a  pity,"  said  she,  "  that  our  hours  of 
pleasure  should  be  so  brief !  Soon  we  shall  have 
to  return  to  our  places." 

His  Serene  Highness,  Migajas,  from  the  mo- 
ment of  his  transformation,  had  begun  to  expe- 
rience the  queerest  sensations.  The  strangest 
of  these  consisted  in  his  having  lost  the  sense 
of  taste  and  the  notion  of  food.  All  he  had 
eaten  lay  within  him  as  though  his  stomach  had 
been  a  basket  containing  a  thousand  pasteboard 
viands  which  he  did  not  digest,  which  had  no 
substance,  weight,  taste,  or  nourishment.  More- 
over, he  was  no  longer  master  of  his  movements, 


The  Princess  and  the  Ragamuffin.         87 

and  was  compelled  to  keep  time  when  he  walked, 
which  was  a  difficult  thing  to  do.  He  felt  him- 
self growing  hard,  as  though  he  were  being 
turned  to  bone,  wood,  or  clay.  He  thumped 
himself,  and  behold  !  his  body  resounded  like 
porcelain.  His  clothes,  too,  had  grown  hard, 
and  were  in  every  respect  precisely  like  his  body. 

When  he  found  himself  alone  with  his  little 
wife  and  clasped  her  to  his  bosom,  he  experi- 
enced no  human  or  divine  sensation  of  pleasure, 
—  nothing  but  the  harsh  shock  of  two  hard,  cold 
bodies.  He  kissed  her  cheek ;  it  was  frozen. 
In  vain  did  his  hungry  spirit  call  upon  nature. 
Nature  in  him  was  what  it  is  in  a  piece  of  pot- 
tery. He  felt  his  heart  throbbing  like  the  ma- 
chinery of  a  watch.  His  thoughts  alone  sur- 
vived ;  the  rest  was  all  unfeeling  mattei. 

The  princess  seemed  very  happy.  "  What  is 
the  matter,  my  love?"  said  she,  observing 
Pacorrito's  expression  of  distress. 

"  I  am  weary,  bored,  bored  to  death,  my  dear," 
said  the  lover,  gaining  assurance. 

"You  will  get  accustomed  to  it.  O  happy 
hours  !  If  this  lasted  much  longer,  we  could  not 
endure  it !  " 

"  Does  your  Highness  call  this  happiness  ?  " 
observed  Migajas.  "  What  coldness,  what  emp- 
tiness, what  rigidity !  " 

"  The  after-taste  of  human  things  still  lingers 


88  Christmas  Stories. 

in  your  soul,  and  you  are  still  a  slave  to  the  views 
of  your  depraved  human  senses.  Pacorrito,  I 
shall  have  to  implore  you  to  control  these  par- 
oxysms, or  you  will  be  the  demoralization  and 
destruction  of  every  living  doll." 

"  Life  !  life  !  blood  !  heat !  "  shouted  Migajas, 
in  despair,  gesticulating  like  a  maniac.  "  What 
is  happening  to  me  ?  " 

The  princess  clasped  him  to  her  bosom,  and 
kissing  him  with  her  red,  waxen  lips,  exclaimed  : 

"  You  are  mine,  forever,  forever,  through  time 
everlasting ! " 

Just  then  they  heard  a  great  commotion,  and 
the  sound  of  many  voices  crying,  — 

"  It  is  time  !  it  is  time  !  " 

The  clock  struck  twelve,  and  all  had  disap- 
peared, princess,  palace,  dolls,  and  emperors. 
Pacorrito  was  left  alone. 

XIII. 

He  was  left  alone  in  the  most  complete  dark- 
ness. He  tried  to  scream,  but  he  was  voiceless. 
He  made  frantic  attempts  to  move,  but  he  could 
not ;  he  had  turned  to  stone. 

He  waited  in  anguish.  Day  dawned  at  last ; 
and  Pacorrito  had  resumed  his  old  appearance, 
but  strange  to  say,  he  was  all  of  one  color,  and 
apparently  all  of  one  substance,  —  his  hands,  his 


The  Princess  and  the  Ragamuffin.        89 

arms,  his  rags,  his  hair,  and  even  the  newspapers 
which  he  held  in  his  hand. 

"  There  is  no  doubt  about  it,"  said  he ;  "  I 
have  turned  into  a  stone." 

Before  him  he  saw  a  great  sheet  of  plate-glass, 
with  some  letters  on  it,  running  backward. 
Around  him  was  a  multitude  of  statuettes  and 
fancy  ornaments. 

"  Horror  !     I  must  be  in  the  show-window  !  " 

A  clerk  took  him  carefully  in  his  hands,  and 
having  dusted  him,  put  him  back  in  his  place. 

His  Serene  Highness  looked  down  upon  the 
pedestal  on  which  he  stood,  and  saw  a  card  with 
the  figures  $12.00  upon  it. 

"  Good  heavens  !  I  am  worth  a  treasure  ! 
That,  at  least,  partially  consoles  one." 

And  the  people  stopped  on  the  other  side  of 
the  plate-glass  to  admire  the  wonderful  bit  of 
clay  statuary  representing  a  ragamuffin  selling 
matches  and  newspapers.  Everybody  praised 
the  artist,  and  laughed  at  the  droll  expression 
and  bungling  figure  of  the  great  Migajas,  while 
he  in  the  inmost  recesses  of  his  clay  repeated 
in  anguish,  — 

"  A  puppet !  a  puppet !  forever  !  through 
time  everlasting  !  " 


A  TRAGEDY. 

From  the  Spanish  of  ANTONIO 


T  was  a  great  city  in  the  far 
North,  a  gloomy  city  with 
pointed  roofs  that  seemed 
to  have  been  carved  out 
of  the  fog.  The  birds 
that  hurried  past  it  on 
their  journey  south  said 
to  themselves  that  it 
looked  like  a  forest  of 
steeples.  Under  one  of 
these  pointed  roofs  lived 

two  young  people  whom  the  coldness  of  emigra- 
tion had  huddled  together  in  a  closer  intimacy. 
They  were  very  unconscious  of  the  fog,  and  it 
never  occurred  to  them  that  the  city  looked  like 
a  forest  of  steeples  ;  in  fact,  they  never  thought 
of  the  city  at  all,  and  would  scarcely  have  been 
surprised  if  they  had  heard  it  spoken  of  as  an 
orange  grove,  —  for  they  were  lovers.  The  little 
nest  they  had  built  themselves  under  the  pointed 
roof  was  bright  with  the  sunshine  that  came  from 
them  ;  and  the  few  people  who  entered  there  be- 
came intoxicated  with  a  strange  aroma  of  tender- 


92  Christmas  Stories, 

ness  that  surged  to  their  brains  like  the  fumes  of 
old  wine,  in  sweet  reminiscences  or  disturbing 
suggestions. 

It  would  not  be  perfectly  correct  to  say  that 
these  young  people  lived  entirely  alone  ;  and  had 
they  not  been  so  absorbed  in  each  other,  living 
that  life  of  double  selfishness  peculiar  to  lovers, 
they  could  scarcely  have  helped  feeling  a  soft  blue 
gaze  fixed  upon  them,  evening  after  evening,  as 
they  took  their  accustomed  places  before  the 
hearth. 

On  the  mantel-piece  which  overhung  the 
hearth  was  a  small  black  marble  clock,  a  statu- 
ette of  Psyche  with  butterfly  wings  made  of 
plaster,  a  little  Italian  shepherd  of  very  primi- 
tively tinted  clay,  and  a  bisque  vase.  Now,  this 
vase  was  the  gem  of  the  drawing-room.  On  its 
bosom  was  painted  a  running  stream  that  broke 
into  cataracts  here  and  there  over  glossy  brown 
stones.  Its  pitch  was  amazingly  abrupt.  It 
started  at  the  brim  of  the  vase  and  disap- 
peared under  it.  On  its  banks,  far  away  in  a 
misty  perspective  of  pink  and  violet  trees,  were 
a  number  of  shadowy  little  shepherdesses,  some 
carrying  tender  lambs,  others  dancing  the  minuet, 
but  all  very  blithe  and  merry.  At  some  distance 
from  them,  and  at  the  very  front,  where  the  cata- 
ract roared  its  loudest,  stood  a  much  larger  shep 
herdess  in  clear  relief,  thrusting  herself  boldly 


A   Tragedy.  93 

forward  as  though  she  meant  to  leap  from  the 
parental  vase,  to  which  she  was  bound  only  by 
the  tip  of  her  flowered  skirt  and  the  heel  of  her 
slippered  foot.  She  held  her  crook  high  in  the 
air  as  if  to  balance  herself  in  her  flight.  In  her 
other  hand  was  a  wreath  of  corn-flowers,  with 
which  she  shaded  a  pair  of  dreamy  blue  eyes 
that  gazed  in  perpetual  wonder  at  the  world  be- 
low. Her  sisters  were  simple  little  things,  who 
were  content  to  play  with  a  lambkin  all  day  long 
in  the  sun,  or  dance  the  minuet  under  the  trees, 
but  who  had  absolutely  no  ideas.  Now,  this 
particular  little  shepherdess  had  not  only  ideas, 
she  had  thoughts,  and  what  was  more,  she  was 
conscious  of  them.  It  was  not  to  be  wondered 
at  that  all  things  fell  in  love  with  each  other  in 
this  peculiar  little  room  ;  nor  was  it  surprising 
that  most  things  fell  in  love  with  the  little  shep- 
herdess. The  wonder  was  that  she,  on  the  other 
hand,  fell  in  love  with  nothing.  This  superiority 
of  thought  was  very  isolating,  and  her  aloneness 
would  have  been  unendurable  but  for  the  grati- 
fying nature  of  its  cause.  The  clock  was  an  un- 
pleasant neighbor,  —  childless  and  critical,  which 
sometimes  means  the  same  thing.  Its  conversa- 
tion invariably  took  the  form  of  a  colloquy,  stiff 
with  rules,  bristling  with  maxims ;  besides,  hav- 
ing gone  through  life  measuring  out  time,  it  had 
reached  that  stage  of  indiscriminate  scepticism 


94  Christmas  Stories. 

which  is  the  greatest  possible  damper  on  the 
open-mindedness  of  others. 

There  was  the  little  clay  shepherd,  to  be  sure, 
who  was  very  well  thought  of  by  the  community 
at  large.  The  shepherdess  liked  him,  —  cer- 
tainly she  liked  him,  —  and  she  sometimes  spoke 
her  thoughts  to  him,  but  she  never  could  have 
loved  him,  had  the  drawing-room  been  the  Des- 
ert of  Sahara  and  he  its  only  other  inhabitant. 
She  was  always  perfectly  frank  with  him  when- 
ever he  broached  the  subject. 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  do  not  believe  that  you 
are  really  in  love,"  she  said  to  him  kindly ; 
"  you  only  think  you  are,  because  everybody 
else  seems  to  be.  Reflect  a  little,  and  I  am  sure 
you  will  agree  with  me,  —  for  my  part,  I  have 
given  it  a  great  deal  of  serious  thought.  The 
air  seems  full  of  thrills  for  all  of  you  lately,  but 
you  should  be  very  careful ;  a  thrill  is  a  danger- 
ous prism  through  which  to  look  at  life."  And 
to  herself  she  said,  "  Poor  little  fellow  !  he  thinks 
he  can  build  a  bonfire  out  of  two  straws." 

She  could  not  associate  love  with  his  healthy 
plumpness.  He  was  even-tempered,  and  had  an 
occasional  idea,  but  no  theories ;  he  wanted 
things  without  longing  for  them  ;  his  love  was 
tender  but  not  invariably  delicate.  She  felt  the 
fault  to  be  in  his  head  rather  than  in  his  heart ; 
he  always  acquiesced,  but  seldom  understood. 


A  Tragedy.  95 

On  the  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room  was  a 
Chinese  mandarin,  who  was  also  in  love  with  the 
little  shepherdess,  but  she  absolutely  abhorred 
him.  To  her  mind  he  was  coarse  and  repulsive, 
in  spite  of  his  wealth.  His  jokes  never  amused 
her.  Still  he  was  a  humorist,  and  had  a  way  of 
wobbling  his  head  and  poking  out  his  tongue 
that  threw  the  whole  drawing-room  into  convul- 
sions of  laughter.  Poor  little  shepherdess  !  Well, 
she  did  what  we  all  do  under  similar  circum- 
stances. She  built  herself  a  world  of  her  own, 
—  a  little  intellectual  laboratory  into  which  she 
dragged  bits  of  careful  observation  to  be  sub- 
mitted to  the  tests  of  her  theories.  So,  poised 
like  a  sparrow  on  a  twig,  she  continued  to  peer 
over  the  edge  of  the  mantel-piece,  where  she  saw 
quite  enough  to  set  her  thinking. 

Her  master  and  mistress  were  a  source  of 
constant  study  to  her.  Late  in  the  evening, 
when  he  sat  on  a  broad,  low  chair  before  the  fire, 
and  she  on  the  floor  resting  her  head  against  his 
knees,  the  little  shepherdess's  eyes  fairly  glowed 
with  concentrated  attention.  "  So  that  must  be 
love,"  she  thought,  as  she  made  a  note  of  some- 
thing indefinable  that  quivered  on  their  lips,  or 
trembled  on  their  eyelids  and  made  them  droop. 
"  I  wonder  how  they  feel !  I  wish  I  knew  ! " 
She  was  watching  her  mistress  with  peculiar  in- 
terest one  night,  when  she  saw  her  slip  her  hand 


96  Christmas  Stories. 

into  her  husband's  coat-pocket,  and  draw  out  an 
envelope  with  no  stamp  upon  it.  This  she  held 
for  a  second  or  two,  undecided  as  to  whether 
she  would  read  its  contents.  She  looked  up  in- 
quiringly at  her  husband,  then  with  a  quick 
movement  thrust  it  back  unopened,  and  laugh- 
ingly threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  to  drive 
away  the  unpleasant  impression.  "  That  is  a 
grave  mistake,"  thought  the  little  shepherdess. 
"  Why  should  there  be  anything  that  he  should 
not  want  her  to  know?  As  a  principle,  it  is 
wrong.  It  is  because  people  build  their  love  on 
illusions  that  they  fear  revelations.  Why  are 
they  so  cowardly?  I  do  not  believe  the  truth  to 
be  as  black  as  it  is  painted.  We  should  love, 
knowing, —  that  is  the  way.  There  must  be  such 
a  thing.  Oh,  when  I  love  —  "  and  her  eyes 
grew  misty  at  the  very  thought,  and  the  lace  on 
her  little  bodice  rose  and  fell. 

The  days  came  and  went,  and  found  her 
growing  ever  more  dainty,  and  more  thoughtful 
too.  At  last  she  opened  her  blue  eyes,  one 
Christmas  Eve,  upon  what  struck  her  at  first  as 
something  alarming.  It  was  midnight ;  and  a 
stealthy  sound  of  creaking  boots  awoke  her  from 
her  first  sleep  and  in  the  very  midst  of  a  won- 
derful dream.  Her  little  heart  was  beating  very 
fast.  At  first  she  thought  it  might  be  a  burglar  who 
had  heard  of  her  cleverness  and  her  philosophies, 


A   Tragedy.  97 

and  who  had  broken  into  the  house  to  steal  her 
away,  but  in  a  second  a  match  was  struck  and 
she  understood  her  mistake.  Her  master  stood 
before  her  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  She  saw 
him  tiptoe  to  the  door,  close  it  tightly,  then  stand 
listening  for  a  moment  before  lighting  the  gas. 
What  could  he  be  so  mysterious  about?  She 
rubbed  her  eyes  and  watched  him  attentively. 
She  soon  discovered  that  he  held  a  bundle  under 
his  arm,  and  she  smiled  to  herself  knowingly. 
"  A  Christmas  present,"  she  said  ;  and  she  leaned 
so  far  forward  that  she  almost  tipped  off  the 
mantel-piece.  Her  master  sat  down,  laid  the 
package  on  his  lap,  and  cut  the  strings  with  his 
penknife ;  then  he  removed  the  wrappings  as 
noiselessly  as  possible.  Though  the  little  shep- 
herdess had  entirely  recovered  from  her  alarm, 
she  began  to  experience  a  sensation  entirely  new 
to  her.  She  felt  as  though  there  were  a  tight 
band  around  her  waist  that  kept  her  from  breath- 
ing freely.  Her  head  grew  hollow  ;  and  a  sick- 
ened sense  of  misery  —  physical  and  mental 
anguishes  writhing  and  knotting  themselves  in 
the  pit  of  her  stomach  —  made  her  feel  strangely 
faint.  What  could  this  mean?  Was  it  a  fore- 
boding? When  the  last  wrapping  was  carefully 
laid  aside,  she  opened  her  eyes  with  a  great  ef- 
fort and  looked  upon  the  most  beautiful  thing 
she  had  ever  seen.  On  the  little  table  directly 
7 


98  Christmas  Stories. 

opposite  her,  stood  a  figure  about  eight  inches 
high,  —  exquisite,  dazzling!  "A  prince  !"  she 
thought  at  first ;  for  he  was  richly  dressed,  had  a 
noble  air,  and  on  his  short  dark  curls  he  wore  a 
crown.  But  no  ;  he  was  not  a  prince. 

As  she  looked  at  him  again  she  realized  that 
his  crown  was  made  of  laurels  ;  then  she  saw  too 
that  he  held  a  violin  in  his  hand.  He  was  some- 
thing greater  than  a  prince ;  he  was  an  artist. 
The  master  stood  off  and  looked  at  him  with 
beaming  joy,  and  the  little  shepherdess  felt  her 
admiration  increase  with  corroboration.  Then 
he  drew  from  his  pocket  a  pink  wax  taper,  which 
he  fitted  into  the  laurel  crown.  When  it  was 
lighted  it  shed  a  soft  radiance.  "  What  a  beau- 
tiful idea  !  "  thought  the  shepherdess  ;  "  that  is  the 
halo  of  art,  glorifying,  transfiguring  everything." 
The  master  then  blew  out  the  light,  and  smiling 
complacently,  reached  up  to  the  chandelier. 
Just  as  he  was  about  to  turn  out  the  gas,  the  lit- 
tle artist  looked  up  and  saw  the  shepherdess,  — 
one  long  look  of  surprise  and  eagerness  ;  their 
glances  met,  and  in  that  look  they  understood 
each  other.  Through  the  darkness  of  that  whole 
night  he  played  her  beautiful  strains  of  dreamy 
music  that  opened  to  her  visions  of  blue  skies 
and  balmy  orange  groves  ;  for  he  came  from  Italy, 
where  the  very  air  must  be  heavy  with  poetry 
and  love,  she  thought.  He  told  her  wonderful 


A   Tragedy.  99 

tales  with  his  violin.  He  alternately  flooded  her 
mind  with  moonlight  and  fairies,  or  peopled  her 
fancy  with  vague  forms  of  sorrow  that  filled  her 
little  breast  with  sobs.  What  a  rapturous  night 
that  was  !  A  bewitched  moonbeam  that  peered 
in  through  a  broken  slat  in  the  blind  lay  there 
entranced.  In  the  pauses  of  the  music  the  plas- 
ter wings  of  the  little  Psyche  quivered  audibly. 
As  for  the  shepherdess,  something  had  per- 
meated her  soul  like  a  subtile  essence,  and 
opened  one  by  one  great  vistas  of  feeling  of 
which  she  had  never  dreamed  even  in  the  bold- 
est flights  of  her  imaginings.  All  her  senses 
seemed  suddenly  to  have  grown  exquisitely 
acute.  "  What  a  bursting  heart  there  must  be 
behind  it  all ! "  she  thought.  "  What  a  fund  of 
sentiment !  What  must  he  feel  who.  with  a 
stroke  of  his  bow,  can  change  the  aspect  of  the 
world  !  It  is  he  !  It  is  he  at  last ! " 

Christmas  morning  dawned  upon  the  world. 
The  first  rays  of  light  that  penetrated  into  the 
drawing-room  brought  with  them  the  muffled 
sound  of  carriages  hurrying  over  the  snow,  and 
the  occasional  shout  of  a  belated  reveller  min- 
gling with  the  faint  murmur  from  groups  of  early 
church-goers.  But  what  was  this  to  the  little 
shepherdess  ?  The  day  that  had  dawned  for  her 
was  more  momentous  than  Christmas.  She  was 
almost  surprised  to  find  that  it  was  not  a  dream. 


ioo  Christmas  Stories. 

No,  there  he  stood  ;  and  he  smiled  at  her  with 
the  eager  smile  of  those  who  meet  again  after  a 
separation. 

u  You  look  as  though  you  were  about  to  take 
flight,  you  beautiful,  blue-eyed  thing.  Fly  down 
to  me.  I  will  catch  you  in  my  arms,"  he  said, 
at  which  the  little  shepherdess  blushed  crimson. 
"  Perhaps  you  do  not  love  me  now  that  you  see 
me  in  the  light  of  day." 

She  was  just  about  to  answer  something  very 
clever  about  not  fearing  revelations  because  she 
had  all  her  life  scorned  illusions,  when  the  door 
suddenly  opened,  and  her  master  entered  on  tip- 
toe. He  walked  over  to  the  table,  stood  looking 
at  his  purchase  with  satisfaction  for  a  few  sec- 
onds ;  then  taking  it  up  in  his  hand,  he  discovered 
that  the  pink  taper  did  not  fit  tightly  enough  into 
the  little  laurel  crown.  In  moving  the  figure,  it 
was  apt  to  topple  first  to  one  side,  then  another. 
So  he  stood  it  down,  and  twisting  the  upper  part 
carefully,  he  screwed  it  off,  crown  and  taper, 
from  the  pretty  head,  and  carried  them  both 
into  the  next  room.  During  this  incident  a 
thought  flashed  through  the  little  shepherdess's 
mind,  and  like  a  flash  too  she  determined  to 
execute  it.  She  pulled  her  left  foot  with  a 
jerk,  and  gave  a  little  tug  at  her  gown,  and  there 
she  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  mantel-piece,  free. 
She  threw  a  hasty  glance  at  the  little  shepherd. 


A   Tragedy.  101 

who  looked  on  with  a  parched  throat ;  it  is  even 
possible  that  she  smiled  a  kindly  smile  upon  the 
black  clock.  Then  she  gathered  her  skirts  with 
both  hands  and  jumped  down.  It  was  a  supreme 
moment.  The  lovers  stood  looking  into  each 
other's  eyes. 

"  My  precious  one,"  he  said,  "you  are  mine 
at  last.  I  have  waited  for  you  through  the  ages, 
and  you  have  come  !  " 

And  the  little  shepherdess,  stepping  up  on  a 
book,  held  her  wreath  of  corn-flowers  over  his 
head. 

"  I  have  no  laurels  to  bring  you,"  she  said, 
"  but  I  will  crown  you  with  my  trusting  love." 
And  she  rose  on  her  tiptoes  and  leaned  forward 
to  lay  her  corn-flowers  on  his  brow.  But  what 
was  it?  Why  did  she  start,  and  then  lean  farther 
forward  and  look  again?  What  could  she  have 
seen  to  make  her  eyes  grow  suddenly  dim,  — 
those  clear  eyes  that  meant  to  see  everything? 

The  fact  of  it  was  that  under  the  laurels  it  was 
all  hollow,  hollow  down  to  his  belt.  Where  his 
heart  should  have  been,  she  saw  a  little  dust  that 
exhaled  a  musty  odor,  and  the  wings  of  several 
dead  flies.  Her  brain  reeled.  Was  this  all,  then  ? 
And  the  music,  where  had  the  wonderful  music 
come  from,  or  was  the  music  all?  This  was 
the  shepherdess's  last  speculation.  She  felt  the 
book  sinking  beneath  her  little  feet ;  she  grasped 


IO2  Christmas  Stories. 

her  crook  nervously  ;  then  there  was  a  blank  in 
her  thoughts ;  she  tottered,  and  crash  !  she  fell 
and  broke  into  a  thousand  pieces  at  the  feet  of 
her  lover.  At  first  he  felt  that  he  would  die  too. 
Then  he  composed  himself,  and  when  he  came 
to  understand  how  it  had  all  happened,  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Women  are  all  alike," 
said  he.  "  They  fancy  they  are  thinking  when 
they  are  only  brooding.  They  want  to  be  ana- 
lytical, and  they  are  only  cavilous."  And  he 
tuned  his  violin,  while  his  eyes  rested  on  the  lit- 
tle plaster  Psyche. 


THE   THREE   LOW   MASSES. 

From  the  French  of  ALPHONSE  DAUDET. 

I. 


1WO  truffled  turkeys,  did  you  say, 
Garrigou  ?  " 

"Yes,  my  reverend, 
two  great,  glorious  tur- 
keys stuffed  with  truffles. 
I  ought  to  know  some- 
thing about  it,  consider- 
ing I  helped  stuff  them 
myself.  I  thought  their 

skins    would    crack  while    they  were  roasting, 
they  were  stretched  so  tight  — 

"  Merciful  Saints  !  And  I  'm  so  fond  of 
truffles  too !  Hurry  there,  Garrigou,  hand  me 
my  surplice.  And  what  else  did  you  see  in 
the  kitchen  besides  the  turkeys?" 

"  Oh,  all  sorts  of  good  things.  Ever  since 
twelve  o'clock  we  have  been  plucking  pheasants, 
hoopoes,  hazel-hens,  and  heath-cocks.  From  the 
pond  they  brought  in  eels,  gold-fish,  trouts, 
and  —  " 


104  Christmas  Stories. 

"  About  how  big  were  the  trouts,  Garrigou  ?  " 

"  Oh,  about  so  big,  my  reverend ;  simply 
enormous  — 

"  Holy  Fathers  !  I  can  just  see  them.  Did 
you  put  the  wine  in  the  vases  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  reverend,  I  filled  them ;  but 
mercy  !  that  is  n't  anything  like  the  wine  you  '11 
have  later,  after  midnight  Mass.  You  ought  to 
see  the  dining-hall  at  the  castle,  —  all  the  decan- 
ters glittering  with  the  many-colored  wines,  and 
the  silver,  the  plate,  the  chased  centre-pieces, 
the  flowers,  the  candelabrum ;  I  don't  suppose 
there  has  ever  been  such  a  Christmas  supper  ! 
The  Lord  Marquis  has  invited  all  the  lords  of 
the  neighboring  estates.  There  will  be  over 
forty  at  the  table,  leaving  out  the  bailiff  and  the 
notary.  Ah,  my  reverend,  you  are  very  lucky 
to  be  invited  !  The  smell  of  the  truffles  haunts 
me  now,  simply  from  having  sniffed  at  those  tur- 
keys, —  meuh !  " 

"  Come,  come,  my  child,  let  us  beware  of 
the  sin  of  greediness,  —  particularly  on  the  night 
of  the  Nativity.  Hurry  off  now  and  light  the 
tapers,  and  ring  the  first  call  for  Mass ;  it  will 
soon  be  midnight,  and  we  can't  afford  to  lose 
time." 

This  conversation  occurred  one  Christmas 
night  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  sixteen  hundred 
and  something,  between  the  reverend  Dom  Bala- 


The  Three  Low  Masses.  105 

guere,  formerly  prior  of  the  Barnabites,  and  pres- 
ent chaplain  of  the  Sires  of  Trinquelague,  and 
his  little  clerk,  or  rather  what  he  believed  to  be 
his  little  clerk  Garrigou,  —  for  let  me  tell  you  that 
the  Devil  on  that  particular  night  had  assumed 
the  round  face  and  uncertain  features  of  the 
young  sacristan,  the  better  to  lead  the  reverend 
father  into  temptation  and  make  him  commit  a 
great  sin  of  greediness.  So  while  the  would-be 
Garrigou  (hem !  hem  !)  rang  out  the  chimes 
with  all  his  might  from  the  seigniorial  chapel,  the 
reverend  father  was  slipping  on  his  chasuble  in 
the  little  vestry ;  and  as  his  imagination  was 
somewhat  excited  by  Garrigou 's  gastronomic 
accounts,  he  repeated  mechanically  as  he  got 
into  his  vestments, — 

"Two  roast  turkeys,  gold-fish,  trouts  about 
so  big  !  " 

Without,  the  night  wind  blew,  and  scattered 
the  music  of  the  bells.  Gradually  lights  began 
to  pierce  the  gloom  along  the  roads  of  Mount 
Ventoux,  on  whose  summit  the  old  towers  of 
Trinquelague  reared  their  mighty  heads.  The 
neighboring  farmers  and  their  families  were  on 
their  way  to  the  castle  to  hear  midnight  Mass. 
They  climbed  the  mountain  singing  gayly,  in  lit- 
tle groups  of  five  or  six,  —  the  father  ahead  carry- 
ing the  lantern,  the  women  following,  wrapped 
in  great  dark  cloaks  under  which  the  children 


io6  Christmas  Stories. 

snuggled  to  keep  warm.  In  spite  of  the  cold 
and  the  advanced  hour  of  the  night,  all  these 
good  people  walked  along  merrily,  cheered  by 
the  thought  that  a  great  supper  was  awaiting 
them  as  usual,  below,  in  the  castle  kitchens,  after 
Mass.  Every  now  and  then,  on  the  rough  de- 
clivity some  fine  lord's  coach,  preceded  by  torch- 
bearers,  showed  its  glimmering  window-panes  in 
the  moonlight ;  or  then  a  mule  trotted  along 
shaking  its  bells ;  or  again,  by  the  light  of 
their  lanterns  wrapped  in  mist,  the  farmers  re- 
cognized their  bailiff  and  hailed  him  as  they 
passed. 

"  Good-night,  good-night,  Master  Arnoton  !  " 
"  Good-night;  good-night,  my  children  !  " 
It  was  a  clear  night ;  the  stars  seemed  bright- 
ened by  the  cold ;  the  wind  was  nipping ;  and  a 
fine  sleet  powdered  all  these  cloaks  without  wet- 
ting them,  just  in  order  to  preserve  the  tradition 
that  requires  Christmas  to  be  white  with  snow. 

On  the  very  crest  of  the  mountain  the  castle 
appeared  like  a  goal,  with  its  huge  mass  of  tow- 
ers and  gables,  the  chapel  steeple  rising  straight 
into  the  blue-black  sky,  while  a  thousand  little 
lights  moved  rapidly  hither  and  thither,  blinking 
at  all  the  windows,  and  looking,  against  the  in- 
tense black  of  the  building,  like  the  tiny  sparks 
that  glimmer  in  a  pile  of  burnt  paper. 

After  passing  the  drawbridge  and  the  postern, 


The  Three  Low  Masses.  107 

in  order  to  reach  the  chapel,  one  had  to  cross  the 
first  court,  crowded  with  coaches,  footmen,  sedan- 
chairs,  and  bright  with  the  flame  of  torches  and 
the  glare  from  the  kitchens.  One  could  hear  the 
clicking  of  the  spits,  the  rattling  of  pots,  the 
tinkling  of  crystal  and  silver,  as  they  were  laid  out 
for  the  banquet ;  and  above  it  all  floated  a  warm 
vapor  smelling  of  roasted  meats  and  the  pungent 
herbs  of  complicated  sauces,  which  made  the 
farmers,  as  well  as  the  chaplain,  the  bailiff,  and 
everybody  say,  — 

"  What  a  good  supper  we  shall  have  after 
Mass  ! " 

II. 

Ding,  ling,  ling  !     Ding,  ling,  ling  ! 

Midnight  Mass  has  begun.  In  the  chapel  of 
the  castle,  which  is  a  miniature  cathedral,  with 
intercrossed  arches  and  oaken  wainscoting  up 
to  the  ceiling,  all  the  tapestries  are  hung,  all 
the  tapers  lighted.  What  a  crowd  of  people, 
and  what  sumptuous  costumes  !  Here,  in  one  of 
the  carven  stalls  that  surround  the  choir,  sits  the 
Sire  of  Trinquelague,  clad  in  salmon-colored  silk, 
and  around  him  all  the  noble  lords,  his  guests. 
Opposite  them,  on  velvet  fall-stools,  kneel  the 
old  dowager  Marchioness,  in  a  gown  of  flame- 
colored  brocade,  and  the  young  lady  of  Trinque- 
lague, wearing  on  her  pretty  head  a  great  tower 


io8  Christmas  Stories. 

of  lace  puffed  and  quilled  according  to  the  latest 
fashion  at  the  court  of  France.  Farther  down 
the  aisle,  all  dressed  in  black,  with  vast  pointed 
wigs  and  cleanly  shaven  chins,  sit  Thomas  Arno- 
ton  the  bailiff,  and  the  notary,  Master  Ambroy, 
two  sombre  spots  amid  the  high  colors  of  silks 
and  brocaded  damasks.  Then  come  the  fat 
major-domos,  the  pages,  outriders,  the  stewards, 
Dame  Barbe  with  her  great  bunch  of  keys  dan- 
gling from  her  side  on  a  ring  of  fine  silver.  On 
the  benches  in  the  rear  is  the  lower  service,  — 
butlers,  maids,  the  farmers  and  their  families. 
And  last  of  all,  far  back  against  the  doors,  which 
they  discreetly  open  and  close,  come  the  cooks, 
between  two  sauces,  to  catch  a  little  whiff  of  the 
Mass,  bringing  with  them  into  the  bedecked 
church,  warm  with  the  light  of  so  many  tapers, 
odoriferous  suggestions  of  the  Christmas  supper. 

Can  it  be  the  sight  of  these  crisp  white  caps 
that  diverts  the  reverend  father's  attention  ?  Or 
is  it  not  rather  Garrigou's  bell  ?  —  that  fiendish 
little  bell  that  tinkles  away  at  the  foot  of  the 
altar  with  such  infernal  haste,  and  seems  to  be 
saying,  — 

"  Come,  come,  let  us  hurry  !  The  sooner  we 
despatch  the  service,  the  sooner  we  go  to 
supper." 

The  fact  of  the  matter  is  that  at  every  peal 
from  this  little  devil  of  a  bell,  the  chaplain  for- 


The  Three  Low  Masses.  109 

gets  his  Mass  and  allows  his  mind  to  wander  to 
the  Christmas  supper.  He  evokes  visions  of 
busy  kitchens,  with  ovens  glowing  like  furnaces, 
warm  vapors  rising  from  under  tin  lids,  and 
through  these  vapors,  two  superb  turkeys, 
stuffed,  crammed,  mottled  with  truffles.  Or  then 
again,  he  sees  long  files  of  little  pages  carrying 
great  dishes  wrapped  in  their  tempting  fumes, 
and  with  them  he  is  about  to  enter  the  dining- 
hall.  What  ecstasy  !  Here  stands  the  immense 
table,  laden  and  dazzling  with  peacocks  dressed 
in  their  feathers,  pheasants  spreading  their 
bronzed  wings,  ruby-colored  decanters,  pyra- 
mids of  luscious  fruit  amid  the  foliage,  and  those 
wonderful  fish  that  Garrigou  spoke  of  (Garrigou, 
forsooth  !)  reclining  on  a  bed  of  fennel,  their 
pearly  scales  looking  as  if  they  were  just  from 
the  pond,  and  a  bunch  of  pungent  herbs  in  their 
monster-like  nostrils.  This  beatific  vision  is  so 
vivid  that  Dom  Balaguere  actually  fancies  that 
the  glorious  dishes  are  being  served  before  him, 
on  the  very  embroideries  of  the  altar-cloth,  and 
instead  of  saying  Dominus  vobiscum,  he  catches 
himself  saying  the  Benedicite. 

With  the  exception  of  these  slight  mistakes 
the  worthy  man  rattled  off  the  service  conscien- 
tiously, without  skipping  a  line,  or  omitting  a 
genuflection,  and  all  went  well  to  the  end  of  the 
first  Mass.  For  you  must  know  that  on  Christ- 


no  Cnristmas  Stories. 

mas  the  same  officiating  priest  is  obliged  to  say 
three  Masses  consecutively. 

"  So  much  for  one  !  "  thought  the  chaplain, 
with  a  sigh  of  relief ;  and  without  losing  a  second, 
he  motioned  his  clerk,  or  him  whom  he  believed 
to  be  his  clerk,  and  — 

Ding,  ling,  ling  !     Ding,  ling,  ling  ! 

The  second  Mass  has  begun  —  and  with  it  Dom 
Balaguere's  sin.  "  Come,  let  us  hurry  !  "  says 
Garrigou's  bell,  in  a  shrill,  devilish  little  voice,  at 
the  mere  sound  of  which  the  unfortunate  priest 
pounces  upon  the  missal  and  devours  its  pages 
with  all  the  avidity  of  his  over-excited  brain. 
He  kneels  and  rises  frantically,  barely  sketches 
the  sign  of  the  cross  and  the  genuflections,  and 
shortens  all  of  his  gestures  in  order  to  get  through 
sooner.  He  scarcely  extends  his  arms  at  the 
Gospel,  or  strikes  his  breast  at  the  Confiteor. 
Between  him  and  his  little  clerk  it  is  hard  to  tell 
who  mumbles  the  faster.  The  words,  half  ut- 
tered between  their  teeth,  —  for  it  would  take 
them  too  long  to  open  their  lips  every  time,  — 
die  out  into  unintelligible  murmurs,  — 

Oremus  —  ps  —  ps  —  ps  — 

Mea  culpa  —  pa  —  pa  — 

Like  hurried  vintagers  crushing  the  grapes  in 
the  mash-tuns,  they  both  splashed  about  in  the 
Latin  of  the  service,  spattering  it  in  every 
direction. 


The  Three  Low  Masses.  in 

"  Dom  —  scum  !  "  says  Balaguere. 

"  Stutuo  ! "  responds  Garrigou,  while  the  in- 
fernal little  bell  jingles  in  their  ears  like  the  sleigh- 
bells  that  are  put  on  stage-horses  to  hasten  their 
speed.  You  may  well  imagine  that  at  such  a 
rate  a  Low  Mass  is  soon  rattled  off. 

"So  much  for  the  second,"  says  the  pant- 
ing chaplain,  with  scarlet  face,  in  a  full  perspira- 
tion ;  and  without  taking  time  to  breathe,  he  goes 
tumbling  down  the  altar  steps,  and  — 

Ding,  ling,  ling !     Ding,  ling,  ling  ! 

The  third  Mass  is  under  way.  Only  a  few  min- 
utes stand  between  them  and  the  supper.  But 
alas  !  as  the  time  approaches,  Dom  Balaguere's 
fever  of  impatience  and  greediness  increases. 
His  vision  grows  more  and  more  vivid ;  the 
fish,  the  roasted  turkeys,  are  there  before  him ; 
he  touches  them ;  he  —  great  Heavens  !  —  he 
breathes  the  perfume  of  the  wines  and  the 
savory  furnes  of  the  dishes,  and  the  frantic  little 
bell  calls  out  to  him,  — 

"  Hurry,  hurry  !     Faster,  faster !  " 

But  how  on  earth  can  he  go  faster?  His  lips 
barely  move  ;  he  has  given  up  enunciating  alto- 
gether, —  unless,  forsooth,  he  chooses  to  cheat 
the  Lord,  and  swindle  him  out  of  his  Mass. 
And  that  is  just  what  he  is  doing,  the  wretched 
man  !  Yielding  first  to  one  temptation,  then  an- 
other, he  skips  one  verse,  then  two ;  then  the 


H2  Christmas  Stories. 

Epistle  being  very  long,  he  omits  part  of  it,  skims 
over  the  Gospel,  passes  the  Creed  unnoticed, 
skips  the  Pater,  hails  the  preface  from  afar,  and 
thus  with  a  skip  and  a  jump  plunges  into  eter- 
nal damnation,  followed  by  that  infamous  Garri- 
gou  (  Vade  retro,  Satanas  I),  who  seconds  him  with 
marvellous  sympathy,  upholds  his  chasuble,  turns 
the  pages  two  at  a  time,  jostles  the  lecturn,  and 
upsets  the  vases,  while  the  little  bell  rings  con- 
stantly, ever  faster  and  louder. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  the  bewil- 
dered expression  of  the  congregation.  Com- 
pelled to  follow,  mimicking  the  priest,  through 
this  Mass,  of  which  they  can  make  neither  head 
nor  tail,  some  stand  while  others  kneel,  some 
sit  while  others  stand  ;  and  all  the  phases  of  this 
singular  service  are  jumbled  together  along  the 
benches  in  the  greatest  confusion  of  varied  pos- 
tures. The  Christmas  star  on  the  celestial  road, 
journeying  toward  the  little  manger  yonder, 
grows  pale  at  the  very  thought. 

"  The  abbe  reads  too  fast ;  it  is  impossible  to 
follow  him,"  whispers  the  old  dowager  Mar- 
chioness, whose  voluminous  head-dress  shakes 
wildly.  Master  Arnoton,  with  his  great  steel 
spectacles  on  his  nose,  loses  his  place  every 
minute  and  fingers  his  Prayer-Book  nervously. 
Still,  at  heart  all  these  good  people,  whose 
minds  are  equally  bent  upon  the  Christmas  sup- 


The  Three  Low  Masses.  113 

per,  are  not  at  all  disturbed  at  the  idea  of  follow- 
ing Mass  at  such  breakneck  speed ;  and  when 
Dom  Balaguere,  facing  them  radiantly,  exclaims 
in  a  thundering  voice,  "  Ite  missa  est,"  the  re- 
sponse, "  Deo  gracias,"  is  so  unanimous,  joyous, 
and  spirited,  that  any  one  might  take  it  for  the 
first  toast  of  the  supper. 

III. 

Five  minutes  later  the  assembled  lords,  and 
the  chaplain  among  them,  had  taken  their  seats 
in  the  great  hall.  The  castle,  brilliantly  illumined, 
echoed  with  songs  and  laughter ;  and  the  vener- 
able Dom  Balaguere  drove  his  fork  resolutely 
into  a  capon's  wing,  drowning  the  remorse  for 
his  sin  in  the  savory  juice  of  meats  and  the 
soothing  draughts  of  old  wine.  He  ate  and 
drank  so  heartily,  the  dear  good  man,  that  he 
died  of  a  spasm  that  very  night,  without  even 
having  had  time  to  repent.  By  morning  he 
reached  heaven,  where  the  thrills  of  the  past 
night's  ecstasies  lingered  still  in  the  air,  and  I 
leave  you  to  imagine  how  he  was  received. 

"  Get  thee  gone,  thou  wretched  Christian  !  " 
said  Saint  Peter;  "thy  sin  is  great  enough  to 
wipe  out  the  virtues  of  a  lifetime  !  Ah,  so 
thou  wouldst  swindle  us  out  of  a  Mass  !  Very 
well,  then,  three  hundred  Masses  shalt  thou  say, 
8 


ii4  Christmas  Stories. 

nor  shall  thou  enter  into  Paradise  until  three 
hundred  Christmas  Masses  have  been  celebrated 
in  thine  own  chapel,  and  in  the  presence  of  all 
those  who  sinned  with  thee  and  through  thee." 

And  this  is  the  true  legend  of  Dom  Balaguere, 
as  it  is  told  in  the  land  of  the  olive-tree.  The 
castle  of  Trinquelague  has  long  ceased  to  exist ; 
but  the  chapel  stands  erect  on  the  crest  of 
Mount  Ventoux,  in  a  clump  of  evergreen  oaks. 
The  wind  sways  its  unhinged  door ;  the  grass 
grows  over  the  threshold  ;  there  are  nests  in  the 
angles  of  the  altar,  and  on  the  sills  of  the  high 
ogive  windows,  whose  jewelled  panes  have  long 
since  disappeared.  Still,  it  seems  that  every 
year  at  Christmas  supernatural,  mysterious  lights 
hover  among  the  ruins  ;  and  on  their  way  to  mid- 
night Mass  and  the  Christmas  supper,  the  peas- 
ants see  this  spectre  of  a  chapel  lighted  by 
invisible  tapers,  which  burn  in  the  open  air, 
even  in  the  wind  and  under  the  snow.  You  may 
laugh  if  you  will,  but  a  wine-dresser  of  the  dis- 
trict, named  Garrigue,  a  descendant  of  Garri- 
gou,  no  doubt,  has  often  told  me  that  on  one 
particular  Christmas  night,  being  somewhat  in 
liquor,  he  had  lost  his  way  on  the  mountain 
somewhere  near  Trinquelague,  and  this  is  what 
he  saw :  until  eleven  o'clock  nothing.  Every- 
thing was  silent  and  dark.  Suddenly  at  mid- 
night the  chimes  rang  out  from  the  old  steeple. 


The  Three  Low  Masses.  115 

—  strange,  uncanny  chimes,  that  seemed  to  be 
ringing  a  thousand  miles  away.  Soon  lights 
began  to  tremble  along  the  road,  and  vague 
shadows  moved  about.  Under  the  portal  of 
the  chapel  there  were  sounds  of  footsteps  and 
muffled  voices :  — 

"  Good-night,  Master  Arnoton  !  " 
"  Good-night,  good-night,  my  children  !  " 
When  they  had  all  gone  in,  my  wine-dresser, 
who  was  a  courageous  fellow,  crawled  up  to  the 
door  and  there  beheld  a  most  marvellous  specta- 
cle. All  these  good  shadows  sat  around  the 
choir  in  the  ruined  nave  just  as  though  the 
benches  were  still  there.  There  were  fine  ladies 
in  brocades  and  lace  head-dresses,  lords  gayly 
bedizened,  peasants  in  flowered  coats  like  those 
our  grandfathers  wore,  all  of  them  dusty,  faded, 
weary.  Every  now  and  then,  some  night-bird, 
an  habitual  lodger  in  the  chapel,  awakened  by 
all  these  lights,  began  to  flutter  about  the  tapers, 
whose  flames  rose  erect  and  vague  as  though 
they  were  burning  behind  a  strip  of  gauze.  Gar- 
rigue  was  particularly  amused  at  a  gentleman 
with  great  steel  spectacles,  who  constantly  shook 
his  huge  black  wig,  upon  which  perched  one  of 
these  birds  with  entangled  claws  and  beating 
wings. 

A  little  old  man  with  a  childlike  figure  knelt 
in  the  centre  of  the  choir  and  frantically  shook  a 


n6  Christmas  Stories, 

tiny  bell  which  had  lost  its  voice,  while  a  priest 
clad  in  old-gold  vestments  moved  hither  and 
thither  before  the  altar  repeating  orisons  of  which 
not  a  syllable  could  be  heard. 

Who  could  this  have  been  but  Dom  Balaguere, 
saying  his  third  Low  Mass? 


THE    POET'S   CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


From  the  Spanish  of  PEDRO  A    DE  ALARCON. 

In  a  beautiful  corner  of  Andalusia 
Lies  a  smiling  valley. 

God  bless  it ! 
For  in  that  valley 
Have  I  friends,  loves, 
Brothers,  parents. 


(El  Latigo.) 


I. 


GOOD  many  years  ago, 
for  I  was  then  only 
seven,  my  father  came 
to  me  in  the  twilight  of 
a  winter's  day,  when  the 
three  Ave  Marias  had 
been  repeated  to  the 
sound  of  the  church- 
bells,  and  said  solemnly, 
"  You  need  not  go  to 
bed  with  the  chickens 

to-night,  Pedro  ;  you  are  a  big  boy  now,  and  you 
ought  to  have  supper  with  your  parents  and 
your  older  brothers.  This  is  Christmas  Eve." 

I  shall  never  forget  the  delight  with  which  I 
heard  these  words.      I  was  not  going  to  bed 


n8  Christmas  Stories. 

until  late  !  I  cast  a  glance  of  commiseration 
and  contempt  upon  my  younger  brothers,  and 
instantly  fell  to  composing  a  description,  to  be 
delivered  at  school  on  my  return  after  Twelfth 
Night,  of  this  my  first  adventure,  my  first  lark, 
the  first  dissipation  of  my  life. 

II. 

It  was  already  las  Animas^  as  they  say  in  our 
village. 

Our  village  !  Ninety  leagues  from  Madrid,  a 
thousand  leagues  from  the  world,  nestling  in  a 
fold  of  the  Sierra  Nevadas  !  I  can  almost  fancy 
I  see  you,  brothers,  father,  and  mother  ! 

A  huge  oak  log  whistled  and  crackled  in  the 
fireplace.  We  all  sat  together  under  the  vault 
of  the  chimney.  My  two  grandmothers,  who 
spent  that  night  with  us,  presiding  over  the 
household  ceremonies,  occupied  the  corner  seats  ; 
my  father  and  mother  sat  next  to  them,  the  rest 
of  the  place  being  occupied  by  the  children  and 
servants ;  for  on  such  an  occasion  we  all  rep- 
resented the  home,  and  it  seemed  fitting  that 
one  fire  should  warm  us  all.  I  remember,  how- 
ever, that  our  men  remained  standing,  and  that 

1  A  certain  hour  of  the  evening,  when  the  ringing  of 
bells  admonishes  the  faithful  to  pray  for  the  souls  in 
purgatory 


The  Poefs  Christmas  Eve.  119 

our  maids  squatted  or  knelt.  Their  respectful 
humility  forbade  their  occupying  a  chair.  The 
cats  slept  in  the  centre  of  the  circle,  their  tails 
turned  to  the  fire.  An  occasional  snowflake 
came  fluttering  down  the  chimney,  —  that  elfin 
road,  —  and  the  wind  moaned  in  the  distance 
and  spoke  to  us  of  the  absent,  the  poor,  the 
wayfarers.  My  father  and  my  eldest  sister 
played  on  the  harp,  and  I  accompanied  them, 
to  their  distress,  on  a  drum  which  I  had  con- 
trived that  very  evening  out  of  a  broken  water- 
jug- 

Do  you  know  the  song  of  the  Aguinaldos, 
which  is  sung  in  the  villages  that  lie  east  of  the 
Mulhacem?  Well,  that  was  the  music  that 
constituted  the  concert.  The  maid-servants 
took  it  upon  themselves  to  render  the  vocal 
parts,  and  they  sang  couplets  to  this  effect :  — 

"  To-night  is  Christmas  eve  ; 

To-morrow  is  Christmas  day. 
Maria,  fetch  the  jug  of  wine  , 

Let 's  be  merry  while  we  may." 

And  all  was  happiness  and  merry-making. 
Rusks,  butter-cakes,  pastes  of  nuts  and  honey, 
sweetmeats  made  by  the  nuns,  rosoli,  and 
cherry  brandy  were  freely  passed  around. 
There  was  much  talk  of  going  to  midnight 
Mass,  to  the  Nativity  play  at  dawn,  to  see  the 
Bethlehem  manger  which  we  boys  had  con- 


izo  Christmas  Stories. 

structed  in  the  tower,  and  also  of  making  sher- 
bet out  of  the  snow  that  carpeted  the  court. 

Suddenly  in  the  midst  of  all  this  merriment 
I  was  struck  by  the  deep  meaning  of  these 
words,  sung  by  my  paternal  grandmother :  — 

"  Christmas  comes, 

Christmas  goes ; 

But  soon  we  all  shall  be  of  those 
Who  come  back  —  never ! " 

In  spite  of  my  tender  age  this  couplet  chilled 
my  heart.  All  the  melancholy  horizons  of  life 
seemed  to  have  been  unfolded  before  me  in  a 
flash.  It  was  a  burst  of  intuition,  unnatural  at 
my  age ;  it  was  a  miraculous  prescience,  the 
herald  of  the  ineffable  tedium  of  poetry  ;  it  was 
my  first  inspiration.  I  saw  and  understood  at 
a  glance,  with  marvellous  lucidity,  the  inevitable 
fate  of  the  three  generations  present.  It  oc- 
curred to  me  that  my  grandparents,  my  parents. 
and  my  brothers  were  like  a  marching  army 
whose  vanguard  was  stepping  into  the  grave, 
while  the  rearguard  had  not  yet  left  the  cradle ; 
and  these  three  generations  represented  a  cen- 
tury ;  and  all  past  centuries  had  been  alike,  and 
ours  would  disappear  as  they  had  done,  and  so 
would  the  centuries  unborn. 

"Christmas  comes, 
Christmas  crocs." 


77/i?  Poet's  Christmas  Eve.  121 

Such  is  the  implacable  monotony  of  time,  the 
pendulum  oscillating  in  space,  the  indifferent 
repetition  of  events,  in  contrast  with  the  brevity 
of  our  pilgrimage  in  this  world. 

"  But  soon  we  all  shall  be  of  those 
Who  coine  back  —  never  !  " 

Horrible  thought !  Cruel  sentence,  the  definite 
meaning  of  which  was  like  a  summons  to  me, 
—  death  beckoning  me  from  the  shadows  of 
the  future.  Before  my  imagination  a  thousand 
Christmas  Eves  filed  by,  a  thousand  hearths 
were  extinguished,  a  thousand  families  that  had 
supped  together  ceased  to  exist,  —  other  chil- 
dren, other  joys,  other  songs,  lost  forever ;  the 
loves  of  my  grandparents,  their  antiquated  mode 
of  dress,  their  remote  youth,  the  memories 
thereof  that  crowded  upon  them  ;  my  parents' 
childhood,  the  first  Christmas  celebration  in  our 
home,  all  the  happiness  that  had  preceded  me ! 
Then  I  could  imagine,  I  could  foresee,  a  thou- 
sand more  Christmas  Eves  recurring  periodically 
and  robbing  us  of  our  life  and  hope,  —  future 
joys  in  which  we  should  not  all  take  part  to- 
gether, my  brothers  scattered  over  the  earth,  my 
parents  naturally  dying  before  us,  the  twentieth 
century  following  upon  the  nineteenth  !  The 
live  coals  turned  to  ashes,  —  my  vanished  youth, 
my  old  age,  my  grave,  my  posthumous  memory, 


122  Christmas  Stories. 

then  the  complete  oblivion  of  me,  the  indif- 
ference, the  ingratitude  of  my  grandchildren, 
living  of  my  blood,  and  who  would  laugh  and 
enjoy  while  the  worms  profaned  the  skull  in 
which  these  very  thoughts  were  now  conceived. 

The  tears  gushed  from  my  eyes.  I  was  asked 
why  I  was  crying,  and  as  I  did  not  know  or  at 
least  could  not  have  defined  the  reason  even  to 
myself,  my  father  concluded  that  I  was  sleepy, 
and  I  was  accordingly  sent  to  bed.  Here  was 
another  motive  for  weeping,  and  so  it  happened 
that  my  first  philosophical  tears  and  my  last 
childish  ones  were  mingled.  That  night  of  in- 
somnia which  I  spent  listening  to  the  joyous 
sounds  of  a  celebration  from  which  I  had  been 
excluded  for  being  too  much  of  a  child,  as  my 
parents  believed  then,  —  or  too  much  of  a  man, 
as  I  realize  now,  —  was  perhaps  the  bitterest  of 
my  life. 

I  must  have  fallen  asleep  at  last,  however,  for 
I  cannot  remember  whether  the  projects  of  go- 
ing to  midnight  Mass,  the  Nativity  play,  and 
making  sherbet  out  of  the  snow  in  the  court  fell 
through  or  not. 

III. 

Where  is  my  childhood? 
I   feel  as  though  I  had  just  been  relating  a 
dream. 


The  Poet's  Christmas  Eve.  123 

The  world  is  wide,  after  all !  My  paternal 
grandmother,  the  one  who  sang  the  couplet, 
died  a  long  time  ago.  On  the  other  hand,  my 
brothers  have  married  and  have  children.  My 
father's  harp,  unstrung  and  broken,  has  been 
thrown  among  the  cast-off  furniture.  It  has 
been  many  a  Christmas  Eve  since  I  had  supper 
at  home.  My  village  has  disappeared  from  the 
ocean  of  my  life  like  the  islet  which  the  mariner 
leaves  behind  him. 

I  am  no  longer  the  same  Pedro,  the  child, 
that  focus  of  ignorance,  curiosity,  and  anguish 
trembling  on  the  threshold  of  life.  I  am  noth- 
ing short  of  a  man,  an  inhabitant  of  Madrid, 
comfortably  settled  in  life,  proud  of  my  inde- 
pendence as  a  bachelor,  a  novelist,  and  a  volun- 
teer in  the  great  orphanage  of  the  capital,  with 
whiskers,  debts,  and  loves. 

When  I  compare  myself  now,  my  perfect 
freedom,  my  broad  life,  the  immense  scene  of  my 
operations,  my  early  experience,  standing  as  I 
do  revealed,  tuned  like  a  grand  piano  on  the 
night  of  a  concert ;  when  I  compare  myself  with 
all  my  boldness,  my  ambitions,  my  contempts, 
with  the  little  chap  that  played  the  drum  fifteen 
years  ago  on  Christmas  Eve  in  a  remote  corner 
of  Andalusia,  —  I  smile,  I  even  laugh  aloud, 
with  the  feeling  that  it  befits  me,  while  my 
lonely  heart  sheds  pure  tears  of  infinite  melan- 


124  Christmas  Stories. 

choly,  which  it  carefully  hides  from  view.  Holy 
tears  !  May  Providence  frank  you  to  the  home 
where  my  father  is  growing  old  ! 


IV. 

Well,  what  shall  it  be  ?  —  for,  as  the  boys  sing  in 
the  streets,  — 

"  Christmas  Eve  !  Christmas  Eve  ! 
This  is  surely  no  night  for  sleep  !  " 

Where  shall  I  spend  the  evening?  Fortu- 
nately I  can  choose ;  let  me  see. 

This  is  the  24th  of  December,  1855.  We  are 
in  Madrid.  We  know  the  waiters  of  all  the 
cafe's  by  name.  We  are  hand  in  glove  with  the 
most  applauded  poets  of  the  day,  the  demi-gods 
of  provincial  amateurs.  We  frequent  theatres 
and  see  plays  from  the  inside,  as  it  were. 
The  great  actors  and  singers  shake  our  hand 
behind  the  scenes.  We  penetrate  into  the 
editor's  rooms  and  are  initiated  in  the  alchemy 
which  produces  newspapers.  We  have  seen  the 
type-setter's  fingers  stained  with  the  lead  of 
words,  and  the  fingers  of  the  author  stained  with 
the  ink  of  thoughts.  We  have  free  access  to 
one  of  the  tribunes  of  Congress,  credit  at  the 
hotels  ;  there  are  social  gatherings  that  appreciate 
us,  and  tailors  that  endure  us. 


The  Poet's  Christmas  Eve.  125 

We  are  happy !  Our  youthful  ambition  is 
satisfied.  We  can  enjoy  this  night.  We  have 
conquered  the  world.  Madrid  is  ours.  Madrid 
is  our  home.  A  cheer  for  Madrid  !  And  you, 
provincial  youths,  who  at  nightfall  on  an 
autumn  day,  sad  and  lonely,  unearth  and  air 
your  impotent  longing  for  the  capital,  —  you  who 
feel  yourselves  to  be  poets,  musicians,  painters, 
orators,  who  despise  your  village,  who  will  not 
speak  to  your  parents,  who  weep  with  ambition 
and  dream  of  suicide,  —  burst  with  envy,  all  of 
you,  as  we  are  now  bursting  with  pleasure. 

V. 

Two  hours  have  passed.  It  is  nine  o'clock. 
I  have  money ;  where  shall  I  take  supper  ? 
My  friends,  more  fortunate  than  I,  will  smother 
their  loneliness  in  the  clamor  of  an  orgy. 
"  Night  is  of  wine,"  they  said  to  me  only  a  few 
moments  ago:  but  I  would  not  be  of  them. 
It  has  been  some  time  now  since  I  crossed  this 
red  sea  of  youth  dry-footed. 

"Night  is  of  tears,"  I  said  to  them. 

Those  who  compose  our  social  gatherings  are 
at  the  theatre.  The  people  of  Madrid  celebrate 
the  Nativity  of  our  Lord  by  listening  to  the 
ranting  of  actors. 

A  few  homes  in  which  I  am  almost  a  stranger 


126  Christmas  Stories. 

have  offered  me  alms  out  of  their  domestic 
warmth  in  the  form  of  an  invitation  to  dinner,  — 
for  the  old-fashioned  supper  has  gone  out  of 
style.  But  I  would  not  accept.  That  is  not 
what  I  want.  What  I  long  for  is  the  Paschal 
feast,  the  Christmas  Eve  supper,  my  home,  my 
relatives,  my  traditions,  my  memories,  the 
former  joys  of  my  soul,  the  religion  that  was 
taught  me  when  I  was  a  child. 

VI. 

Ah,  Madrid  is  an  inn.  On  a  night  like  this 
we  come  to  know  what  Madrid  is.  Our  capital 
is  a  floating  population,  heterogeneous,  exotic, 
which  can  only  be  compared  to  the  population 
of  a  free  port,  of  a  jail,  of  an  insane  asylum. 
Travellers  journeying  toward  a  future,  to  the 
fantastic  kingdom  of  ambition,  halt  here  as  well 
as  those  who  are  journeying  back  from  misery, 
from  crime. 

Beauty  comes  here  to  marry,  or  to  sell  herself, 
the  landed  proprietor  to  squander  his  wealth, 
the  literati  for  glory,  the  deputy  to  become  a 
minister,  the  worthless  man  for  a  government 
office.  The  savant,  the  inventor,  the  comedian, 
the  giant,  the  dwarf,  the  man  with  an  anomaly 
in  his  soul  or  in  his  body,  the  monster  with 
seven  arms  and  three  noses  as  well  as  the  phi 


The  Poefs  Christmas  Eve.  127 

losopher  with  double  sight,  the  charlatan,  the 
reformer,  the  man  who  creates  melodies,  and 
the  man  who  counterfeits  bank-notes,  —  all  spend 
some  period  of  their  life  in  the  great  inn. 
Those  who  attain  notoriety,  those  who  find  a 
purchaser,  those  who  have  grown  rich  at  the 
expense  of  themselves,  become  in  time  the  inn- 
keepers, the  landlords,  the  masters  of  Madrid, 
and  forget  the  land  of  their  birth.  But  we,  the 
wayfarers,  the  lodgers,  —  we  realize  to-night  that 
Madrid  means  exile,  that  Madrid  is  a  bivouac,  a 
prison,  a  purgatory.  For  the  first  time  in  the 
year  we  feel  that  neither  the  cafe,  the  theatre,  the 
casino,  nor  the  hotel  is  our  house.  More  than 
that,  we  realize  that  our  house  is  not  our  home. 

VII. 

The  home  —  that  sacred  abode  of  the  patri- 
arch, of  the  Roman  citizen,  of  the  feudal  lord,  of 
the  very  Arab ;  the  holy  arch  of  the  Penates, 
temple  of  hospitality,  and  altar  of  the  family  — 
has  completely  disappeared  in  our  great  modern 
centres.  The  home  survives  in  the  provinces 
alone.  There  our  house  is  our  own.  In  Ma- 
drid it  is  generally  the  landlord's.  In  the  prov- 
inces our  house  shelters  us  for  twenty,  thirty, 
forty  years  at  least.  In  Madrid  one  moves  every 
month,  or  at  least  every  year.  Our  home  has  a 


128  Christmas  Stories. 

physiognomy  of  its  own,  which  never  varies,  ever 
kindly  and  sympathetic.  It  grows  old  with  us ; 
it  bears  the  impress  of  our  lives  ;  it  preserves  our 
footprints.  In  Madrid  the  exterior  changes 
every  leap  year ;  the  apartments  are  arrayed  in 
new  garments ;  that  furniture  is  sold  which  our 
contact  had  consecrated.  At  home  the  whole 
edifice  is  ours :  the  grassy  court,  the  poultry- 
yard  filled  with  chickens,  the  high,  cheery  ter- 
races, the  deep  well,  —  the  children's  terror,  — 
the  monumental  tower,  the  broad  cool,  vine- 
covered  summer-house.  Here  we  occupy  a 
half-flat,  paper-lined,  and  divided  into  mean 
apartments,  with  no  view  of  the  sky,  no  sun,  no 
air.  There  we  have  that  neighborly  affection, 
something  between  friendship  and  relationship, 
which  binds  together  all  the  families  of  one 
street.  Here  the  man  who  moves  about  noisily 
above  our  heads  is  unknown  to  us,  neither  do 
we  know  the  man  who  dies  beyond  the  partition 
of  our  alcove,  and  whose  death-rattle  disturbs 
our  sleep.  Our  provincial  home  is  a  cluster  of 
memories,  of  local  attachments  :  here  the  room 
in  which  we  were  born,  there  the  room  where 
our  brother  died  ;  here  the  empty  hall  in  which 
we  played  as  children,  there  the  study  in  which 
we  wrote  our  first  verses.  On  the  chapter  of  a 
column,  in  the  trough  of  an  old  ceiling,  swallows 
have  built  their  nests,  and  every  year  the  faithful 


The  Poefs  Christmas  Eve.  129 

couple  fly  over  from  Africa  to  hatch  a  new  brood. 
In  Madrid  all  this  is  unknown.  And  the  hearth, 
that  consecrated  stone,  cold  in  summer,  cold 
in  our  absence,  but  warm  and  friendly  during 
the  happy  winter  evenings  when  all  the  children 
are  brought  together  and  grouped  about  the  old 
people,  —  for  the  colleges  hav  e  their  vacations, 
the  married  daughters  bring  their  little  ones 
home  on  a  visit,  and  the  absent  ones,  the  prodi- 
gal sons,  come  back  to  the  heart  of  the  family,  — 
where,  tell  me,  where  is  this  hearth  in  the  houses 
of  the  capital  ?  Can  we  call  a  French  mantel- 
piece, made  of  marble,  bronze,  and  iron,  a  hearth, 
that  which  one  can  buy  at  a  store,  at  wholesale 
or  retail,  and  can  even  hire,  if  need  be  ?  The 
French  mantel-piece  is  the  symbol  of  home  in  a 
great  city.  People  of  Madrid,  that  is  your 
hearth,  —  a  hearth  subject  to  the  changes  of 
fashion,  a  hearth  which  is  sold  when  it  is  old, 
which  can  be  moved  from  room  to  room,  from 
street  to  street,  and  which  can  even  be  pawned 
in  an  emergency. 

VIII. 

I  wandered  through  a  street.  Far  above  my 
head,  from  a  high  story,  my  grandmother's  pro- 
phetic couplet  floated  down  to  me  amid  the 
shock  of  glasses,  the  rattle  of  dishes,  and  the 
merry  laughter  of  girls. 
9 


130  Christmas  Stories. 

"  Christmas  comes, 

Christmas  goes ; 
But  soon  we  all  shall  be  of  those 

Who  come  back  —  never." 

"  Here,"  thought  I,  "  is  a  home,  a  hearth, 
with  almond  soup  and  a  gilt-head,  which  1 
could  buy  for  four  dollars  !  "  Just  then  a  woman 
came  up  to  me,  begging.  She  had  two  chil- 
dren, one  in  her  arms  wrapped  in  her  ravelled 
shawl,  the  other  clinging  to  her  hand.  Both 
were  crying;  I  thought  the  mother  was  crying 
too. 

IX. 

I  do  not  know  how  I  happen  to  be  in  this 
cafe.  The  clock  strikes  midnight,  the  hour 
when  the  Christ  was  born.  I  am  here,  alone,  in 
a  boisterous  crowd.  I  have  fallen  to  analyzing 
my  life  since  I  left  my  father's  roof,  and  for  the 
first  time  I  am  horror-stricken  at  the  painful 
struggle  of  the  poet  in  Madrid,  —  a  struggle  in 
which  so  much  affection,  so  much  peace,  is  sacri- 
ficed to  a  vain  ambition. 

I  have  watched  the  bards  of  the  nineteenth 
century  writing  the  local ;  I  have  watched  the 
Muse,  scissors  in  hand,  making  clippings  ;  I  have 
seen  men  who  in  other  ages  would  have  written 
a  national  epic  busily  patching  up  editorials  to  re- 
habilitate a  party  and  earn  fifty  dollars  a  month. 


The  Poefs  Christmas  Eve.  131 

Poor  children  of  God !  Poor  poets !  An- 
tonio Trueba,  to  whom  I  dedicate  this  article, 
says,  — 

"  I  have  found  so  many  thorns  on  my  journey 
that  my  heart  aches,  my  soul  aches  !  " 

And  so  much  for  my  present  Christmas  Eve  ! 

Then  I  travel  back,  in  thought,  through  the 
bygone  years.  I  am  surely  missed  at  home  to- 
night ;  and  my  mother  shivers  when  the  wind 
moans  in  the  chimney,  as  though  those  moans 
were  my  dying  sighs.  And  she  says  to  the 
neighbors,  "  In  such  a  year,  when  he  was  with 
us,"  or,  "  I  wonder  where  he  is  now !  " 

Ah,  I  cannot  bear  this  !  I  wave  you  a  fare- 
well from  my  soul,  dear  ones  !  I  am  ambitious  ; 
I  am  an  ingrate,  a  bad  brother,  a  bad  son  ! 
How  can  I  explain  it?  A  supernatural  force 
leads  me  on,  whispering,  "  Thou  shalt  be  !  " 
The  voice  of  damnation  that  spoke  to  me  in  my 
very  cradle.  And  what,  pray,  am  I  to  be,  poor 
wretch  that  I  am? 

"  Soon  we  all  shall  be  of  those 
Who  come  back  —  never  " 

Ah,  I  do  not  want  to  go  !  I  shall  not  go  !  I 
have  struggled  too  hard  to  fail.  I  shall  return. 
I  will  triumph  in  life  and  in  death.  Is  there  to 
be  no  compensation  for  the  infinite  anguish  of 
my  soul? 


132  Christmas  Stories. 

X. 

It  is  very  late,  and  that  couplet  of  the  dead 
still  rings  in  my  brain,  — 

"  Christmas  comes, 

Christmas  goes ; 

But  soon  we  all  shall  be  of  those 
Who  come  back  —  never." 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  other  Christmas  Eves  will  come," 
thought  I,  as  a  child  ;  and  I  dreamed  of  the  future 
and  built  castles  in  the  air.  I  saw  myself  the 
centre  of  a  family,  as  yet  unborn,  in  the  second 
twilight  of  life  when  the  flowers  of  love  come  to 
fruit.  That  storm  of  love  and  tears  which  wrecks 
me  now  was  passed  ;  my  head  was  at  rest  in  the 
lap  of  patience,  crowned  with  the  melancholy 
flowers  of  the  last,  true  affections.  I  was  a  hus- 
band, a  father,  the  support  of  a  home,  of  a 
family. 

The  flame  of  an  unknown  hearth  sparkled  in 
the  distance,  and  in  its  vacillating  light  I  saw 
strange  beings  that  made  me  throb  with  pride  ; 
they  were  my  sons.  Then  I  wept,  and  I  closed 
my  eyes  to  prolong  the  vision  of  that  reddish 
light  and  the  prophetic  apparition  of  the  unborn. 
•  The  grave  was  near  ;  my  locks  were  gray.  But 
what  of  that  ?  Would  not  half  of  my  life  remain 
in  these  children  of  love  ?  Would  not  half  of 


The  Poefs  Christmas  Eve.  133 

my  soul  remain  with  their  mother?  In  vain  did 
I  try  to  recognize  this  wife,  who  was  to  share  the 
twilight  of  my  life.  This  future  companion  whom 
God  holds  for  me  sat  with  her  back  to  me.  I 
could  not  see  her  face.  I  looked  for  the  reflec- 
tion of  her  features  in  the  faces  of  my  sons,  but 
the  light  from  the  hearth  began  to  fail. 

When  it  was  out  I  still  saw  her,  because  I  felt 
the  warmth  of  her  in  my  soul.     I  murmured  : 

"  Christmas  comes, 
Christmas  —  " 

And  I  was  asleep,  perhaps  dead. 


I  TAKE   SUPPER  WITH    MY   WIFE. 

From  the  French  of  GUSTAVE  DROZ. 

T  was  Christmas  Eve,  and 
a  devilishly  cold  night. 
The  snow  fell  in  great 
flakes,  which  the  wind 
beat  against  the  win- 
dow-panes. The  distant 
chimes  reached  us,  con- 
fused and  faint  through 
the  heavy,  cottony  atmosphere.  The  passers-by, 
muffled  in  their  cloaks,  glided  along  hurriedly, 
brushing  by  the  walls  of  the  houses,  bending 
their  heads  before  the  wind.  Wrapped  in  my 
dressing-gown,  I  smiled  as  I  drummed  on  the 
window-pane,  smiled  at  the  passers-by,  at  the 
north  wind  and  the  snow,  with  the  smile  of  a 
happy  man  who  is  in  a  warm  room  with  his  feet 
in  a  pair  of  flannel-lined  slippers  which  sink  into 
a  thick,  soft  carpet. 

My  wife  sat  in  a  corner  of  the  hearth  with  a 
great  piece  of  cloth  before  her  which  she  cut 
and  trimmed  off;  and  every  now  and  then  she 


136  Christinas  Stories. 

raised  her  eyes,  which  met  mine.  A  new  book 
lay  on  the  mantel-piece  awaiting  me,  and  a  log  in 
the  fireplace  whistled  as  it  spit  out  those  little 
blue  flames  which  tempt  one  to  poke  it. 

"  There  is  nothing  so  stupid  as  a  man  trudg- 
ing along  in  the  snow.  Is  there? "  said  I. 

"  Sh-h-h  !  "  said  my  wife,  laying  down  her 
scissors.  Then  she  stroked  her  chin  thought- 
fully with  her  tapering  pink  fingers,  slightly 
plump  at  the  extremities,  and  looked  over  very 
carefully  the  pieces  she  had  just  cut  out. 

"  I  say  that  it  is  absurd  to  go  out  into  the 
cold  when  it  is  so  easy  to  stay  at  home  by  the 
fire." 

"  Sh-h-h ! " 

"  What  the  deuce  are  you  doing  that  is  so 
important?  " 

"I  —  I  am  cutting  out  a  pair  of  suspenders 
for  you  ;  "  and  she  resumed  her  task.  Her  hair 
was  coiled  a  little  higher  than  usual ;  and  where  I 
stood,  behind  her,  I  could  just  see,  as  she  leaned 
over  her  work,  the  nape  of  her  neck,  white  and 
velvety.  Innumerable  soft  little  locks  curled 
there  gracefully,  and  this  pretty  down  reminded 
me  of  those  ripe  peaches  into  which  we  drive 
our  teeth  greedily.  I  leaned  nearer  to  see  and 
—  kissed  my  wife  on  the  neck. 

"  Monsieur  !  "  exclaimed  Louise?  turning  sud- 
denly around. 


/  take  Supper  with  my    Wife.          137 

"  Madame  !  "  and  we  both  burst  into  a  laugh. 

"  Come,  come  ;    on  Christmas  Eve  !  " 

"  Monsieur  apologizes  ?  " 

"  Madame  complains?  " 

•'  Yes ;  Madame  complains.  Madame  com- 
plains of  your  not  being  more  moved,  more 
thrilled  by  the  spirit  of  Christmas.  The  ding- 
ding-dong  from  the  bells  of  Notre  Dame 
awakens  no  emotion  in  you  ;  and  when  the  magic- 
lantern  went  by  under  your  very  window,  you 
were  perfectly  unmoved,  utterly  indifferent.  I 
watched  you  attentively,  though  I  pretended  to 
work." 

''Unmoved?  Indifferent?  I?  When  the 
magic  lantern  went  by !  Ah,  my  dear !  you 
judge  me  very  severely,  and  really  — 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  laugh  if  you  will.  It  is  neverthe- 
less true  that  the  pretty  memories  of  your 
childhood  are  lost." 

"  Come,  my  pet,  would  you  like  me  to  stand 
my  boots  in  the  fireplace  to-night  before  I  go  to 
bed?  Would  you  like  me  to  stop  the  magic- 
lantern  man  and  go  and  get  him  a  sheet  and  a 
candle-end,  as  my  mother  used  to  do?  I  can 
almost  see  her  as  she  handed  him  the  sheet. 
'  Be  careful  you  don't  tear  it,  now,'  she  would 
say ;  and  we  all  clapped  our  hands  in  the  mys- 
terious obscurity.  I  remember  all  those  joys, 
dear ;  but,  you  see,  so  many  things  have  hap- 


138  Christmas  Stories. 

pened  since.  Other  pleasures  have  obliterated 
those." 

"  Yes,  I  understand,  —  the  pleasures  of  your 
bachelorhood !  Come,  now,  I  am  sure  this  is 
the  first  Christmas  Eve  that  has  ever  found  you 
by  your  own  fireside,  in  your  dressing-gown  and 
without  a  supper,  because  you  always  had  sup- 
per ;  that  goes  without  saying  — 

"  Why,  I  don't  know  —  " 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I  wager  you  always  had  a  supper.'1 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  did,  once  or  twice,  although 
I  scarcely  remember ;  I  may  have  had  supper 
with  a  few  old  friends.  And  what  did  it  all 
amount  to?  Two  pennies'  worth  of  chestnuts 
and—" 

"  And  a  glass  of  sugar  and  water." 

"  Well,  just  about.  Oh,  it  was  nothing  much, 
I  can  assure  you  !  It  sounds  great  at  a  dis- 
tance. We  talked  awhile,  and  then  we  went 
to  bed." 

"  And  he  says  all  that  with  the  straightest 
face  !  You  have  never  breathed  a  word  of  these 
simple  pleasures  to  me." 

"  But,  my  dear,  what  I  tell  you  is  the  absolute 
truth.  I  remember  once,  however,  at  Ernest's, 
when  I  was  in  rather  high  spirits,  we  had  a  little 
music  afterwards  —  Will  you  push  me  that  log  ? 
Well,  never  mind ;  it  is  almost  midnight,  and 
time  for  all  reasonable  people  to  — 


/  take  Supper  with  my    Wife.         139 

(Louise,  rising  and  throwing  her  arms  around 
me.)  "  Well,  I  don't  choose  to  be  reasonable, 
and  I  mean  to  eclipse  the  memory  of  those 
penny  chestnuts  and  all  that  sugar  and  water !  " 
(Pushing  me  hastily  into  my  study,  and  locking 
the  door.) 

"  What  the  deuce  is  the  matter  with  you,  my 
dear  ? "  I  cried  from  the  other  side  of  the 
partition. 

"Give  me  ten  minutes,  no  more.  Your 
paper  is  on  the  mantel-piece  ;  you  have  not  seen 
it  to-night.  You  will  find  the  matches  in  the 
corner." 

Then  I  heard  the  rattle  of  china,  the  rustle  of 
silky  stuffs.  Could  my  wife  have  gone  crazy? 
At  the  end  of  about  ten  minutes  she  unlocked 
the  door. 

"  Don't  scold  me  for  shutting  you  out,"  said 
she,  embracing  me.  "  Look  at  me.  Have  I 
not  made  myself  beautiful?  See  !  My  hair 
just  as  you  like  it.  high,  and  my  neck  uncovered. 
But  my  poor  neck  is  so  extremely  shy  that  it 
never  could  have  displayed  itself  in  the  broad 
light,  if  I  had  not  encouraged  it  a  little  by 
wearing  a  low-necked  gown.  After  all,  it  is  only 
right  to  be  in  full-dress  uniform  at  a  supper  with 
the  authority." 

"What  supper?" 

"  Why,  our  supper.     My  supper  with  you,  of 


140  Christmas  Stories. 

course.  Don't  you  see  my  illumination  and  the 
table  covered  with  flowers  and  good  things  to 
eat  ?  I  had  it  all  ready  in  the  alcove  ;  but,  you  see, 
to  push  the  table  before  the  fire  and  make  some- 
thing of  a  toilet,  I  had  to  be  alone.  I  have  a 
big  drop  of  old  Chambertin  for  you.  Come, 
Monsieur,  come  to  supper ;  I  am  as  hungry  as  a 
bear  !  May  I  offer  you  this  chicken-wing?  " 

"  This  is  a  charming  idea  of  yours,  my  love, 
but  I  really  feel  ashamed  of  myself,  —  in  my 
dressing-gown." 

"  Take  it  off,  sir,  if  you  are  uncomfortable, 
but  do  not  leave  me  with  this  chicken-wing  on 
my  hands.  Wait  a  minute  ;  I  want  to  wait  upon 
you  myself."  And  rising,  she  swung  her  napkin 
over  her  arm  and  pulled  up  her  sleeve  to  her 
elbow.  "  Is  n't  that  the  way  the  waiters  do  at 
the  restaurants,  tell  me?" 

"  Exactly.  But  stop  a  moment,  waiter ;  will 
you  permit  me  to  kiss  your  hand?  " 

"  I  have  n't  time,"  she  said,  smiling,  and  she 
drove  the  corkscrew  bravely  into  the  neck  of  a 
bottle.  "  Chambertin  !  —  a  pretty  name.  And, 
besides,  do  you  remember,  before  we  were  mar- 
ried —  sapristt,  what  a  hard  cork  !  —  you  told 
me  you  liked  it  on  account  of  a  play  by  Alfred 
de  Musset? — which  you  never  gave  me  to 
read,  by  the  way.  Do  you  see  those  little  Bohe- 
mian glass  tumblers  that  I  bought  especially  for 


/  take  Supper  with  my    Wife.          141 

to-night?  We  will  drink  each  other's  health  in 
them." 

"And  his  too,  eh?" 

"  The  heir's,  you  mean  ?  Poor  little  love  of 
an  heir,  I  should  think  so !  Then  I  shall  hide 
the  two  glasses  and  bring  them  out  again  this 
day  next  year,  eh,  dear?  They  will  be  the 
Christmas-supper  glasses,  and  we  will  have 
supper  every  year  before  the  hearth,  you  and  I 
alone,  until  our  very  old,  old  age." 

"  Yes ;  but  when  we  shall  have  lost  all  our 
teeth  —  " 

"  Never  mind  ;  we  shall  have  nice  little  soups, 
and  it  will  none  the  less  be  very  sweet.  An- 
other piece  for  me,  please,  with  a  little  jelly, 
thank  you." 

As  she  held  out  her  plate  to  me,  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  her  arm,  the  pretty  contours  of  which 
disappeared  in  the  lace. 

"  What  are  you  looking  up  my  sleeve  for  in- 
stead of  eating?" 

"  I  am  looking  at  your  arm,  dear.  You  are 
exquisitely  pretty  to-night;  do  you  know  it? 
Your  hair  is  wonderfully  becoming,  and  that 
gown  —  I  had  never  seen  that  gown  before." 

"  Dame!  When  a  person  starts  out  to  make  a 
conquest !  " 

"  You  are  adorable  !  " 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  that  I  am  adorable  to- 


142  Christmas  Stories. 

night,  charming,  ravishing?"  Then,  looking  at 
her  bracelet  attentively,  "  In  that  case  I  don't 
see  why  —  I  don't  see  — 

"  What  is  it  that  you  don't  see,  dear  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  don't  come  and  kiss 
me." 

And  as  the  kiss  was  prolonged,  she  threw 
her  head  back,  showing  the  double  row  of  her 
pretty  white  teeth,  exclaiming  between  her 
peals  of  laughter,  — 

;' Give  me  some  more  pdtt? !  I  want  some 
more  pate!  Take  care!  You  are  going  to 
break  my  Bohemian  glass,  the  fruit  of  my 
economy  !  There  is  always  some  disaster  when 
you  try  to  kiss  me.  You  remember  at  Madame 
de  Brill's  ball,  two  nights  before  we  were  mar- 
ried, how  you  tore  my  gown  while  we  were 
waltzing  in  the  little  parlor?" 

"  Well,  but  it  is  very  difficult  to  do  two  things 
at  once,  —  keep  time  with  the  music  and  kiss 
your  partner." 

"  I  remember  when  mamma  asked  me  how  I 
tore  my  gown,  I  felt  that  I  was  blushing  up  to 
the  roots  of  my  hair.  And  Madame  D.,  that  old 
yellow  witch,  said  to  me  with  her  lenten  smile, 
'  What  a  brilliant  color  you  have  to-night,  my 
child ! '  I  could  have  choked  her !  I  said  I 
had  caught  my  gown  on  a  nail  in  the  door. 
I  was  watching  you  out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye. 


/  take  Supper  with  my    Wife.          143 

You  were  twirling  your  mustache,  and  you 
seemed  quite  vexed.  You  keep  all  the  truffles 
for  yourself,  —  how  nice  of  you  !  Not  that  one  ; 
I  want  that  big  black  one  there,  —  in  the  corner. 
Well,  after  all,  it  was  none  the  less  very  wrong, 
because  —  no,  no,  don't  fill  my  glass  ;  I  don't 
want  to  get  tipsy  —  because  if  we  had  not  mar- 
ried (that  might  have  happened,  you  know ; 
they  say  that  marriages  hang  by  a  thread),  well, 
if  the  thread  had  not  been  strong  enough,  here 
I  was  left  with  that  kiss  on  my  shoulder,  —  a 
pretty  plight !  " 

"  Nonsense  !     It  does  not  stain." 

"  Yes,  sir,  it  does  ;  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  it 
does  stain,  and  so  much  so  that  there  are  hus- 
bands, I  am  told,  who  spill  their  blood  to  wash 
out  those  little  stains." 

"  I  was  only  jesting,  dear.  Heavens  !  I 
should  think  it  did!  Fancy!  Why — " 

"  Ah,  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so.  I  like 
to  see  you  get  angry.  You  are  just  a  wee  bit 
jealous,  tell  me,  are  you  not?  Well,  upon  my 
word !  I  asked  you  for  the  big  black  one,  and 
you  are  quietly  eating  it !  " 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  my  love  ;  I  beg  your  pardon. 
I  forgot  all  about  it." 

"  Yes,  just  as  you  did  when  we  were  being 
married.  I  was  obliged  to  touch  your  elbow  to 


144  Christmas  Stories. 

make  you  answer  yes  to  Monsieur  the  Mayor's 
kind  words !  " 

"Kind  words?" 

"  Yes,  kind  words.  I  thought  the  mayor  was 
charming.  No  one  could  have  been  more 
happy  than  he  was  in  addressing  me.  '  Ma- 
demoiselle, do  you  consent  to  take  this  great  big 
ugly  little  man  who  stands  beside  you  for  your 
lawful  —  '  [Laughing  with  her  mouth  full.]  I 
was  about  to  say  to  him,  '  Let  us  understand  each 
other,  Monsieur ;  there  is  much  to  be  said  for 
and  against.'  Heavens  !  I  am  choking  !  [Bursts 
into  great  peals  of  laughter.]  I  was  wrong  in  not 
making  some  restrictions.  There  !  I  am  teas- 
ing you,  and  that  is  stupid.  I  said  yes  with  my 
whole  heart,  I  assure  you,  my  darling,  and  the 
word  was  only  too  weak.  When  I  think  that  all 
women,  even  the  bad  ones,  use  that  same  word, 
I  feel  ashamed  of  not  having  invented  a  better 
one.  [Holding  up  her  glass.]  Here  is  to  our 
golden  wedding  !  " 

"  And  here  is  to  his  christening,  little 
mother !  " 

In  an  undertone  :  "  Tell  me,  dear,  are  you 
sorry  you  married  me?" 

(Laughing.)  "  Yes.  [Kissing  her  on  the 
shoulder.]  I  think  I  have  found  the  stain. 
Here  it  is." 


/  take  Supper  with  my   Wife.         145 

"  Do  you  realize  that  it  is  two  o'clock.  The 
fire  is  out.  I  am  —  you  won't  laugh  ?  Well, 
I  am  just  a  little  dizzy  !  " 

"That  was  a  famous/^///" 

"  A  famous  pate  !  We  will  have  a  cup  of  tea 
in  the  morning,  eh,  dear?  " 


THE  YULE   LOG. 

From  the  French  of  JULES 
SIMON. 

^STERDAY  was  my  birth- 
day. A  number  of  friends 
who  have  never  seen  me 
wrote  to  congratulate  me 
upon  having  reached  the 
age  of  eighty.  They  are 
mistaken  ;  I  am  not  as 
old  as  all  that.  I  can 
readily  understand  that  a 
few  years  more  or  less  make  very  little  difference 
to  them,  but  they  certainly  make  all  the  difference 
in  the  world  to  me.  I  am  still  far  from  the  dig- 
nity of  an  octogenarian ;  yet  I  confess  that  I  am 
very  old,  and  at  my  age  one  likes  to  recall  one's 
early  childhood.  It  is  a  very  well-known  fact 
that  old  people,  —  it  seems  that  I  am  old,  which 
makes  me  furious,  and  I  really  believe  that  I 
should  scarcely  realize  it,  if  people  did  not  take 
particular  pains,  out  of  pure  kindness,  of  course, 
to  remind  me  of  it  every  moment,  —  it  is  a  well- 
known  fact,  I  say,  that  old  people  recall  the  first 
scenes  of  their  life  with  marvellous  accuracy.  I 


14$  Christmas  Stories. 

have  often  heard  Chevreul  speak  of  having  been 
present  on  the  Place  de  la  Revolution  at  the  very 
moment  when  Louis  XVI.  was  executed.  His 
nurse  had  carried  him  there,  the  wretch  !  He 
neither  saw  nor  understood  anything ;  but  he 
remembered  the  words  of  a  garde  nationale 
who  scolded  the  woman  for  having  brought  a 
child  to  such  a  place.  "  He  delivered  there 
and  then  a  perfect  sermon  on  the  subject,"  he 
used  to  say,  "  and  I  remember  every  word  of  it." 
But  let  us  not  speak  of  tragedies. 

I  want  to  take  you  with  me  to  Brittany,  not 
without  having  first  warned  you  against  myself, 
however.  You  must  not  take  me  too  literally 
when  I  describe  the  customs  of  that  country. 
My  descriptions  are  absolutely  faithful,  but  they 
represent  Brittany  as  it  was  from  1815  to  1830. 
I  went  back  there  this  summer  after  an  absence 
of  half  a  century,  and  I  recognized  nothing  but 
the  scenery.  The  men  are  all  civilized,  and  far 
more  Parisian  than  I.  In  order  to  re-classify 
them  I  should  have  been  compelled  to  drive 
them  back  to  their  national  dress,  that  they  so 
foolishly  gave  up. 

I  will  take  you  back,  therefore,  to  the  year 
1822  ;  and  you  would  not  doubt  it  for  an  instant 
if  you  could  follow  me  into  my  father's  study. 
The  walls  were  papered  with  Republican  money. 
He  had  obtained  it  in  exchange  for  cash  ;  and 


The   Yule  Log.  149 

when  it  turned  out  to  be  as  worthless  as  waste 
paper,  he  determined  that  it  should  be  of  some 
use  to  him  anyway.  I  fancy  that  its  usefulness 
consisted  in  reminding  him  of  the  fragility  of 
human  things.  The  walls  were  also  decorated 
with  portraits  of  the  royal  family,  from  the  King 
down  to  M.  de  Villele,  all  tacked  on  with  pins. 
But  these  portraits  were  not  to  be  relied  upon, 
for  when  they  were  turned  upside  down,  they 
represented,  by  some  ingenious  combination, 
the  Ogre  of  Corsica,  the  King  of  Rome,  and  the 
Empress  Marie  Louise.  They  were  suited  to 
all  tastes  and  all  opinions. 

This  extraordinary  study  was  situated  on  the 
first  floor,  —  for  our  house  had  a  first  floor,  differ- 
ing thus  from  the  other  houses  of  the  borough, 
which  had  nothing  but  a  ground  floor.  It  also 
had  a  slate  roof,  which  filled  me  with  legitimate 
pride.  It  looked  out  upon  the  street  which  cir- 
cled the  graveyard  ;  and  I  will  say  at  once,  to 
be  sincere,  that  there  was  no  other  street  in  St. 
Jean  Brevelay.  This  view  and  this  neighborhood 
will  not  strike  you,  with  your  modern  ideas,  as 
very  attractive  ;  but  in  Brittany  we  like  grave- 
yards, —  I  might  even  say  that  we  like  sadness. 
And  then  in  this  graveyard  stood  the  church,  — 
an  imposing  church,  I  can  assure  you,  with  a 
vault  upon  which  hell  was  faithfully  represented 
on  one  side  and  heaven  on  the  other.  Near  our 


150  Christmas  Stories. 

window  there  was  also  a  great  fir,  which  was  worth 
a  whole  forest  in  itself,  and  which  sheltered  a 
formidable  number  of  crows.  If,  however,  in 
spite  of  this  double  attraction  one  found  no 
pleasure  in  contemplating  the  view  from  that  side, 
we  had  another  fagade  to  resort  to,  —  a  facade 
opening  upon  an  immense  and  magnificent  gar- 
den. There  you  might  have  looked  down  upon 
a  patch  of  cabbage,  a  patch  of  French  beans,  of 
peas,  of  carrots,  and  of  potatoes.  We  had  flow- 
ers too,  —  so  many  flowers,  so  many  vegetables, 
and  so  much  fruit,  that  we  made  gratuitous  dis- 
tributions of  them  every  Sunday.  Besides  our 
apple-trees,  the  branches  of  which  bent  under 
the  weight  of  the  fruit,  we  had  pear-trees,  cherry- 
trees,  and  plum-trees.  My  father,  who  had 
travelled  considerably,  particularly  through  the 
South,  prided  himself  upon  his  enterprising  spirit. 
Every  year  when  the  plums  had  been  picked,  he 
collected  them  in  great  piles  ;  from  these  piles 
the  best  were  chosen,  put  upon  a  species  of  rid- 
dles, and  the  riddles  were  laid  in  the  sun.  This 
was  with  a  view  to  making  prunes.  The  plums 
rotted  in  a  few  days  ;  the  birds  and  other  animals 
ate  them ;  and  soon  there  was  nothing  left  but 
the  stones.  These  were  then  thrown  into  the 
street,  where  we  used  to  pick  them  up,  in  order 
to  make  piles  and  stick  a  little  flag  in  the  top. 


The   Yule  Log.  151 

The  next  year  my  father  proceeded  to  make 
prunes  in  precisely  the  same  manner. 

We  were  very  proud  of  our  rose-bushes,  which 
furnished  roses  for  the  altars,  and  of  our  apple- 
trees,  from  which  we  obtained  a  most  excellent 
cider.  We  had  our  wine-press,  our  kneading- 
trough,  our  oven,  and  our  laundrying  basins. 
We  had  pastures  for  our  cows,  wheat-fields,  fields 
of  buckwheat  and  of  rye.  We  sowed  just  enough 
to  supply  our  wants.  There  was  no  mill  in  our 
village,  so  we  were  compelled  to  send  our  grain 
to  Pontecouvrant.  When  it  was  ground,  it  was 
brought  back  and  made  into  very  good  rye 
bread  for  our  daily  use.  We  also  made  a  great 
loaf  of  wheat  bread  once  a  week,  which  we  used 
for  the  soup. 

Every  morning  my  father  started  out,  gun  on 
shoulder,  —  for  in  those  days  there  were  no  rural 
constables  nor  gendarmes  (the  gendarmes  were 
at  Plumelec),  and  one  could  hunt  all  the  year 
round.  He  came  in  at  noon  for  dinner,  and  at 
six  o'clock  for  supper.  My  greatest  delight  con- 
sisted in  running  to  meet  him  and  looking  into 
his  game-bag.  I  never  found  any  game  in  it, 
but  it  often  contained  a  big  trout  or  some  fine 
eels.  We  eventually  discovered  that  the  hunt 
was  a  mere  pretext,  and  that  his  real  passion 
was  fishing.  He  was  extremely  taciturn,  as  all 
of  his  children  have  been  after  him,  and  I  be- 


152  Christmas  Stories. 

lieve  that  to  be  one  of  the  essential  qualities  of 
an  angler. 

During  dinner  he  never  breathed  a  word.  In 
the  evening  at  supper  he  described  the  events  of 
the  day,  when  he  had  been  lucky.  We  took  our 
meals  in  the  kitchen,  which  was  vast  and  cleanly. 
There  were  twenty  of  us  at  table,  and  sometimes 
more,  owing  to  the  legendary  Breton  hospitality. 
The  table  formed  a  long  rectangle.  My  mother 
occupied  one  end  of  it  with  my  sisters  and  my- 
self ;  my  father  sat  at  the  other  end  alone  ;  while 
the  two  long  sides  were  reserved  for  the  ser- 
vants. These  were  no  less  than  twelve  in  num- 
ber :  the  gardener,  the  ploughman,  the  shep- 
herd, the  stable-boy,  and  the  maid-servants. 
This  will  no  doubt  give  you  the  impression  of 
the  household  of  a  wealthy  farmer  or  a  country 
gentleman.  Not  at  all.  In  the  beautiful  borough 
of  St.  Jean  Brevelay  there  was  neither  butcher, 
baker,  nor  grocer.  The  only  merchants  that  I 
ever  saw  there  were  a  mercer  and  a  tavern- 
keeper.  One  was  compelled  to  send  to  Vannes, 
seven  leagues  away,  for  everything,  or  else  live 
like  Robinson  Crusoe  on  his  island. 

I  have  learned  since  that  the  ploughman,  who 
was  our  first  man,  earned  only  thirty  francs  a 
year.  I  leave  you  to  judge  of  the  rest.  It  was 
a  poor  country,  and  one  could  enjoy  all  the  com- 
forts which  it  afforded  with  an  income  of  twelve 


The   Yule  Log.  153 

hundred  francs  a  year.  One  of  our  chief  pleas- 
ures consisted  in  the  care  of  our  garden.  My 
mother  had  a  little  bed  in  which  roses,  tulips, 
pansies,  and  daisies  grew  in  abundance.  She 
was  particularly  fond  of  mignonette  and  honey- 
suckle. The  hedge  around  our  kitchen-garden 
was  covered  with  honey-suckle,  elder,  and  a 
whole  family  of  sweet-smelling  creepers,  over 
which  our  bees  hovered  and  buzzed.  There 
was  seldom  a  day  when  we  did  not  walk  around 
the  garden  once,  and  that  was  quite  a  journey. 
We  had  another  habit  which  I  do  not  understand 
as  well,  and  which  consisted  in  walking  around 
Colas'  field  every  day  after  dinner ;  that  is,  at 
one  o'clock.  We  first  went  down  a  hollow  road 
where  the  mud  was  not  wanting  when  it  had 
rained.  The  flowers  were  not  wanting  there  either 
in  summer;  we  walked  under  a  real  vault  of  them. 
This  road  led  to  the  blacksmith's  shop,  where  I 
always  found  something  to  admire,  —  the  great 
bellows,  the  incandescent  iron,  the  sparks  flying 
from  the  furnace  like  joyous  fireworks.  Next  to 
the  blacksmith's  shop  stood  Marion's  house,  — 
the  last  house  at  the  end  of  the  village.  Marion 
was  a  girl  of  twenty  who  had  lost  her  mother 
when  she  was  eighteen.  Everybody  had  advised 
her  to  go  into  service  ;  but  she  had  preferred  to 
engage  herself  to  my  mother  as  a  seamstress,  by 
the  year.  Her  house  —  "  Marion's  house,"  as  it 


154  Christmas  Stories. 

was  always  spoken  of — belonged  to  her.  It  was 
not  a  great  dowry.  It  consisted  of  two  rooms 
under  a  thatched  roof,  and  a  little  yard  where 
she  raised  her  chickens.  She  had  been  warned 
against  the  dangers  of  living  alone  at  her  age, 
and  in  a  comparatively  isolated  place ;  but  she 
was  a  fearless  girl  and  somewhat  unsociable. 
She  had  discovered,  I  do  not  know  where,  —  in 
one  of  the  neighboring  farms,  perhaps,  —  a  widow 
who  was  only  too  happy  to  occupy  one  of  her 
rooms  gratuitously,  and  who  was  a  companion 
and  a  protection  to  her  when  she  came  home 
after  her  day's  work. 

Colas'  field  began  at  Marion's  door.  It  was 
surely  not  what  one  would  call  beautiful.  We 
walked  straight  before  us,  and  got  back  to  our 
starting-point  at  the  end  of  an  hour  without  hav- 
ing seen  anything  but  apple-trees  and  furrows. 
On  Sunday  when  this  task  had  been  accom- 
plished, we  found  Marion  in  her  yard  among  her 
chickens,  waiting  to  go  to  vespers  with  us.  I 
always  took  her  hand,  and  she  told  me  stories  of 
Poulpiquets. 

I  led  a  joyful  life.  My  mother,  too,  seemed 
happy.  Her  chief  occupation  lay  in  nursing  the 
sick,  and  her  heaviest  expense  in  providing  them 
with  broth  and  drugs  ;  the  latter  were  sent  for  to 
the  druggist's  at  Bignan.  I  had  never  seen  a 
doctor  until  I  went  to  Lorient  to  enter  school. 


The   Yule  Log.  155 

Whenever  she  had  a  perplexing  case,  she  called 
my  father  into  consultation.  As  he  had  been  a 
soldier,  nothing  surprised  him.  His  method 
was  to  bleed.  He  one  day  undertook  to  vacci- 
nate the  entire  population,  and  succeeded  in 
doing  so  by  offering  five  cents  to  all  those  who 
consented  to  honor  him  with  their  trust.  This 
philanthropic  operation  must  have  made  a  great 
hole  in  the  household  budget. 

We  had  a  library  which  contained  fully  twenty 
volumes.  My  sisters  spent  their  time  in  taking 
them  from  my  mother's  room,  and  my  mother 
in  taking  them  from  their  hands.  There  were,  — 
"  Celina,  or,  The  Child  of  Mystery  and  of  Love  ;  " 
"Alexis,  or,  The  Wooden  Cottage;"  "The 
Helmet  and  the  Square  Cap,  or,  Both  suited 
him."  We  also  had,  "The  Evenings  at  the 
Chateau,"  by  Madame  de  Genlis,  "The  Yellow 
Tales,"  and  "  Robinson  Crusoe."  I  was  of 
course  not  permitted  to  touch  the  novels.  I 
was  allowed  "  Robinson  Crusoe,"  "  The  Yellow 
Tales,"  and  "The  Evenings  at  the  Chateau,"  of 
which  permission  I  availed  myself  eagerly,  for  I 
was  ever  a  great  reader.  "  Robinson  Crusoe  " 
particularly  delighted  me,  and  I  read  it  three  or 
four  times  a  year.  I  had  also  a  tender  feeling 
for  "  Celina,"  which  I  only  half  understood.  In 
the  first  place,  it  represented  the  forbidden  fruit ; 
and  in  the  next  place,  it  had  pictures.  I  never 


156  Christmas  Stories, 

got  to  the  denouement,  because  my  mother,  see- 
ing that  I  was  incorrigible,  resolved  to  burn  the 
cuerpo  del  delicto. 

If  I  add  that  in  rummaging  through  the  closets 
and  wardrobes  I  had  found  "  L'Esprit  des  Lois  " 
and  an  odd  volume  of  the  "  Political  and  Philo- 
sophical History  of  the  Two  Indies,"  and  that  I 
read  them,  you  will  no  doubt  believe  that  I  am 
trying  to  make  myself  out  an  infant  prodigy.  It 
was  quite  the  reverse,  for  I  preferred  the  Abbe" 
Raynal  to  Montesquieu,  and  what  I  was  most 
charmed  with  in  the  Abbe  Raynal  was  some  ab- 
surd rant  about  a  mistress  called  Catchinka, 
whom  he  had  lost,  and  who  in  some  remark- 
able way  formed  a  part  of  the  Philosophical 
History  of  the  Two  Indies.  This  strange  library 
produced  a  veritable  chaos  in  my  poor  little 
brain,  over  which  floated  "Robinson."  It 
was  the  genuine  "Robinson"  too,  —  a  transla- 
tion of  the  work  of  Daniel  Defoe,  which,  as 
every  one  knows,  contains  as  many  sermons  as 
it  does  events. 

But  what  I  liked  better  than  "  Robinson," 
better  than  "  Celina,"  better  than  my  garden, 
better  than  the  eternal  walks  around  Colas'  field, 
was  the  church  service  on  religious  holidays, 
the  "  pompous  grandeur  of  its  ceremonies." 
Yes,  the  "pompous  grandeur," —  I  will  not  re- 
tract. Since  then  I  have  seen  St.  Peter's,  the 


The   Yule  Log.  157 

cathedrals  of  Cologne  and  Toledo,  and,  I  be- 
lieve, all  the  finest  churches  in  the  world ;  yet 
I  never  attended  service  anywhere  without  re- 
calling the  poor  little  church  of  St.  Jean  Bre- 
velay.  The  difference  between  the  palace  of  a 
king  and  the  thatched  cottage  of  a  peasant  is 
far  greater  than  that  between  the  august  basilica 
and  the  poor  little  tottering  chapel  of  a  Breton 
village.  May  the  artists  forgive  me,  but  a  church, 
however  poor  and  small,  is  none  the  less  a 
church.  Four  bare  walls,  a  wooden  cross  upon 
a  table,  windows  so  covered  with  dust  that  they 
scarcely  let  the  light  in,  —  all  these  things  speak 
to  the  soul  of  meditation  and  of  prayer. 

I  do  not  know  what  the  population  of  St. 
Jean  Brevelay  was.  It  could  not  have  been  over 
two  hundred  ;  but  on  Sunday  the  people  came  to 
High  Mass  from  the  four  corners  of  the  parish, 
which  was  vast  and  populous.  The  farmhouses 
and  thatched  cottages  all  emptied  themselves  at 
the  first  glow  of  dawn.  You  could  see  the  fami- 
lies making  their  way  to  the  borough  along  every 
known  road  —  the  men  leading  the  way  in  si- 
lence, the  women  following  in  noisy  talk  among 
themselves.  They  at  first  scattered  through  the 
graveyard,  every  family  stopping  to  say  a  prayer 
at  the  family  tomb.  Then  the  friends  and  rela- 
tives came  together  in  groups,  and  the  men 
made  more  than  one  escape  to  the  tavern.  At 


158  Christmas  Stories. 

the  last  call  for  High  Mass  they  all  rushed  to  the 
church  doors,  pushing,  jostling,  crowding  one 
another,  until  the  building  was  filled  from  end  to 
end.  The  graveyard  —  I  might  say  the  borough 
—  was  now  a  perfect  desert.  The  men,  stand- 
ing, and  pressed  close  together,  occupied  all  the 
front  part  of  the  nave ;  the  women,  kneeling, 
filled  the  rear.  All,  without  exception,  took 
part  in  the  singing.  The  common  serpent  was 
unknown  to  us ;  but  with  our  voices  alone  we 
managed  to  make  a  formidable  noise.  The  peo- 
ple were  happy  to  be  there,  not  because,  as  Vol- 
taire says,  "  High  Mass  is  the  opera  of  the  poor," 
but  because,  as  the  Christian  Church  says,  reli- 
gion is  the  consolation  of  the  afflicted.  The 
rector  delivered  his  sermons  in  Low  Breton,  and 
they  were  never  anything  but  a  paraphrase  of 
this  word  of  the  Gospel,  Love  one  another. 
And  surely  they  loved  one  another,  those  uncul- 
tured folk.  They  did  not  know  how  to  read, 
but  they  knew  how  to  love.  They  understood 
gratitude  too.  My  mother  was  almost  an  object 
of  worship. 

The  great  festival  of  the  year,  after  that  of 
Saint  Louis,  was  Christinas.  The  King  first  and 
God  next,  such  is  the  order  of  precedence  un- 
der all  governments.  It  is  possible  that  our 
poor  peasants  would  have  reversed  that  order 
had  they  been  able  to  do  so. 


The   Yule  Log.  159 

I  must  say,  in  order  not  to  give  them  more 
praise  than  they  deserve,  that  what  they  liked 
best  about  Christmas  was  the  midnight  Mass,  — 
a  sorry  enjoyment  for  you  city-bred  people, 
who  are  fond  of  your  comforts.  But  what  is  a 
sleepless  night  to  a  peasant?  Even  when  they 
had  to  plod  along  through  the  mud  or  the  snow, 
not  an  old  man,  not  a  woman  hesitated.  Um- 
brellas were  then  unknown  at  St.  Jean  Breve- 
lay,  or  at  least  ours  was  the  only  one  that  had 
ever  been  seen  there,  and  it  was  naturally  the 
object  of  much  surprise  and  admiration. 

The  women  caught  up  their  skirts  with  pins, 
threw  a  plaid  kerchief  over  their  head-dresses, 
and  started  out  bravely  for  the  parish  church  in 
their  wooden  shoes.  Sleep,  forsooth !  Who 
could  have  slept  even  had  he  wanted  to  ?  The 
chimes  began  the  night  before  immediately  after 
the  evening  Angelus,  and  were  repeated  every 
half-hour  until  midnight.  The  hunters,  in  order 
to  contribute  to  the  general  beatitude,  kept  up  a 
steady  firing.  My  father  furnished  the  powder. 
It  was  a  universal  and  deafening  clamor.  The 
small  boys  took  part  in  it  too,  at  the  risk  of 
maiming  themselves,  whenever  they  could  lay 
their  hands  on  a  gun  or  a  pistol. 

The  vicarage  was  a  short  half-league  from  the 
borough.  The  rector  came  over  on  his  nag, 
which  the  quinquiss  (the  beadle)  led  by  the 


160  Christmas  Stories. 

bridle.  A  dozen  peasants  escorted  him,  firing 
their  pistols  in  his  ears  all  the  while.  But  this 
did  not  disturb  him  in  the  least,  for  he  was  an 
old  Chouan  with  the  death  of  many  a  Blue  on 
his  conscience,  —  withal,  the  kindest  and  most 
compassionate  of  men  since  the  king  had  re- 
turned and  he  had  become  a  priest. 

On  that  night  great  preparations  were  made  at 
home.  Telin-Charles  and  Le  Halloco  measured 
the  fireplace  and  the  kitchen  door  with  as  much 
earnestness  and  importance  as  though  they  had 
not  known  their  dimensions  by  heart  for  many 
years.  The  question  was  to  bring  in  the  Yule 
log  and  to  have  it  as  large  as  possible. 

A  great  tree  was  felled  for  the  purpose ;  four 
oxen  were  harnessed  ;  and  the  log  was  dragged 
to  the  house.  It  took  eight  or  ten  men  to  lift  it, 
and  to  carry  it  in.  It  would  scarcely  fit  in  the 
fireplace.  Then  it  was  adorned  with  garlands  ;  it 
was  propped  and  stayed  by  the  trunks  of  young 
trees ;  and  an  enormous  bunch  of  wild-flowers, 
or  rather  of  live  plants,  was  placed  on  top  of  it. 
The  long  table  was  removed  from  the  kitchen. 
We  took  our  light  meal  standing.  The  walls 
were  hung  with  white  table-cloths  and  sheets, 
just  as  they  are  at  Corpus  Christi ;  and  upon 
them  were  pinned  numerous  drawings  done  by 
my  sister  Louise  and  my  sister  Hermine,  — the 
Virgin,  the  Christ-Child,  etc.  There  were  in- 


The   Yule  Log.  161 

scriptions  too,  "  Et  homo  factus  est !  "  All  the 
chairs  were  removed  to  make  as  much  room  as 
possible  for  our  visitors,  who  were  not  accus- 
tomed to  sitting  on  anything  better  than  their 
heels.  One  chair  was  left  for  my  mother  and  one 
for  my  Aunt  Gabrielle,  who  was  treated  with  much 
deference  on  account  of  her  eighty-six  years. 

She  was  the  one,  my  children,  for  stories  of 
the  Terror  !  Everybody  around  me  knew  many 
such  stories,  for  that  matter,  —  my  father  par- 
ticularly, if  he  had  only  chosen  to  speak.  He 
had  been  a  Blue  ;  and  his  obstinate  silence  was 
no  doubt  due  to  prudence  in  a  part  of  the  coun- 
try that  was  so  full  of  Chouans. 

The  confusion  was  such  in  the  kitchen,  with 
everybody  wanting  to  be  useful,  to  carry  in 
branches  of  fir,  of  broom,  and  of  holly  ;  the  noise 
was  so  deafening  on  account  of  the  hammering 
of  nails  and  the  rattling  of  pots  and  kettles  ;  and 
then  there  came  such  a  clamor  from  without,  — 
ringing  of  bells,  firing  of  guns,  songs,  conversa- 
tions, and  clatter  of  wooden  shoes,  —  that  it 
seemed  like  the  din  of  a  fair  at  the  very  climax 
of  its  animation.  At  half-past  eleven  the  cry, 
"  Eutru  Person  !  Eutru  Person  !  "  ("  The  rec- 
tor !  The  rector  ! ")  resounded  all  along  the 
street.  It  was  taken  up  in  the  kitchen,  and  all 
the  men  started  out  immediately.  The  women 
alone  remained  with  the  family.  When  the  rec- 


1 62  Christmas  Stories. 

tor  reached  our  door,  there  was  a  moment  of 
profound  silence.  He  dismounted.  It  was  I 
who  had  the  honor  of  holding  his  nag  by  the 
bridle  ;  that  is,  I  was  supposed  to  do  so,  but 
somebody  else  always  did  it  for  me.  Heaven 
knows  there  was  no  need  of  holding  the  poor 
beast  anyway. 

M.  Moizan  walked  up  three  steps  to  the  land- 
ing, turned  toward  the  crowd  that  stood  below 
him,  hat  in  hand,  removed  his  own  hat,  and 
said,  after  making  the  sign  of  the  cross,  "  An- 
gelus  Domini  nuntiavit  Mariae."  A  thousand 
voices  responded. 

When  the  prayer  was  over,  he  entered  the 
house,  spoke  cordially  to  my  father  and  mother, 
to  M.  Ozon,  the  mayor,  who  had  just  arrived  from 
Pe'nic-Pichon,  and  to  M.  Oillo,  the  blacksmith, 
who  was  also  the  justice's  clerk.  Then  he  pro- 
ceeded to  the  benediction  of  the  Yule  log. 

My  father  and  mother  stood  on  the  left-hand 
side  of  the  hearth.  Those  women  whom  their 
importance  or  their  intimate  terms  with  the 
family  permitted  to  remain  in  the  sanctuary, 
which  in  this  case  means  the  kitchen,  knelt  in  a 
semi-circle  around  the  hearth.  The  men  were 
crowded  together  in  the  hall,  the  door  of  which 
was  left  open,  and  they  overflowed  into  the 
street  as  far  as  the  graveyard.  Every  now  and 
then  a  woman  who  had  been  detained  by  some 


The   Yule  Log.  163 

domestic  care  cleft  the  crowd  and  came  forward 
to  where  the  others  were  kneeling. 

Aunt  Gabrielle,  arrayed  in  her  mantle,  which 
always  bespoke  a  solemn  occasion,  knelt  in  the 
middle  of  the  semi-circle,  directly  in  front  of  the 
Yule  log,  with  a  holy-water  basin  and  a  branch 
of  box  beside  her.  She  started  a  hymn  which 
all  the  assistants  repeated  in  chorus. 

I  have  forgotten  the  words  of  that  hymn,  and 
I  really  regret  it.  The  air  was  monotonous  and 
plaintive,  like  all  those  that  were  sung  at  our 
firesides.  However,  it  contained  a  crescendo  at 
the  moment  of  the  benediction  which  generally 
sent  a  shiver  through  me,  producing  what  is  com- 
monly known  as  goose-flesh. 

Aunt  Gabrielle  had  just  reached  that  part 
of  the  hymn  on  the  25th  of  December,  1822, 
when  I  became  aware  of  a  strange  confusion 
among  the  male  voices  outside.  The  women 
either  stopped  singing  entirely,  or  sang  out  of 
time  and  tune  ;  the  voices  chased  after  one  an- 
other, scarcely  sustained  themselves,  and  seemed 
stifled  by  a  sudden  emotion.  My  mother's  handf 
which  held  mine,  trembled  for  a  moment,  then 
grew  firm  by  a  great  effort  of  her  will.  Her 
voice  rose,  soared  above  the  voices  of  the  others, 
who,  realizing  at  once  that  they  had  wandered 
inopportunely,  hurried  back  to  the  fold,  and  so  the 
hymn  ended  in  good  order  after  this  surprising 


164  Christmas  Stones. 

interruption.  What  had  happened?  Something 
very  simple  indeed.  A  young  woman  had  made 
her  way  through  the  crowd,  had  entered  the 
kitchen,  and  apparently  anxious  to  remain  unno- 
ticed, had  fallen  on  her  knees  at  a  little  distance 
from  the  others,  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 
I  recognized  her  at  once.  It  was  Marion,  my 
favorite,  the  best  seamstress  on  the  place,  and 
the  prettiest  girl  in  the  borough.  I  would  surely 
have  run  forward  to  kiss  her  but  for  the  solem- 
nity of  the  occasion,  which  forbade  my  leaving 
my  place  or  making  a  noise.  She  was  weeping 
bitterly.  Why  are  you  weeping,  my  sweet 
Marion  ?  I  was  wild  to  have  the  ceremony  end, 
that  I  might  find  out  from  her.  All  the  other 
girls  seemed  embarrassed.  My  mother  alone, 
whom  I  looked  full  in  the  face,  appeared  calm  ; 
but  her  face  lied,  —  I  knew  it  by  the  trembling 
of  her  hand. 

After  the  benediction  of  the  Yule  log  it  was 
the  custom  for  all  the  women  present  to  kiss  my 
mother  before  proceeding  to  the  church.  They 
came  up  in  good  order,  one  after  another  ;  and 
in  spite  of  their  number,  which  amounted  to 
some  thirty  or  forty,  this  formality  only  required 
a  few  minutes.  I  think  that  my  mother  yielded 
to  it  rather  in  spite  of  herself,  for  she  was  an  ex- 
tremely reserved  woman ;  but  all  these  kind 
souls  would  have  believed  that  the  laws  of  the 


The   Yule  Log.  165 

universe  had  been  reversed  if  this  part  of  the 
ceremony  had  been  left  out. 

As  mistress  of  ceremonies,  and  on  account  of 
her  great  age,  Aunt  Gabrielle  opened  the  march. 

Now,  Aunt  Gabrielle  was  a  character.  She 
was  the  living  repertory  of  folk-songs,  legends, 
and  customs.  People  came  from  everywhere  to 
consult  her  when  they  wanted  to  know  how  such 
and  such  a  thing  should  be  done.  Perhaps  you 
believe  that  etiquette  is  peculiar  to  palaces. 
Most  assuredly  not.  In  my  day  a  wedding  had 
more  than  a  thousand  equally  important  formali- 
ties. My  good  aunt,  who  was  the  oracle  of  these 
forms,  had  never  made  use  of  them  for  herself. 

She  was  an  old  maid,  born  at  Belle-Isle-en- 
Mer  under  Louis  XV.,  and  was  a  distant  cousin 
of  ours.  We  have  relationships  in  Brittany 
which  can  be  expressed  in  no  language,  they  are 
so  remote.  My  father,  who  never  thought  of 
himself  until  everybody  else  had  been  provided 
for,  had  brought  out  a  whole  tribe  of  poor  rela- 
tives with  him  to  St.  Jean  Bre'velay.  I  think, 
however,  that  Aunt  Gabrielle  wa.s  an  exception. 
She  gave  more  than  she  received.  She  was  our 
cook,  I  beg  you  to  believe,  and  a  most  excellent 
one  too.  She  was  active,  laborious,  always 
equal  to  the  expedients  of  her  profession,  always 
bright  and  contented,  full  of  delicate  attentions 
for  everybody,  particularly  for  Marguerite  (my 


1 66  Christmas  Stories. 

mother),  her  best  beloved  ;  but  my  good  mother 
was  everybody's  best  beloved.  I  have  never  in 
my  life  known  a  woman  to  be  so  universally 
cherished. 

Aunt  Gabrielle  had  only  two  faults :  she 
spoiled  children  horribly,  and  she  gave  the  poor 
whatever  she  could  lay  her  hands  on.  It  often 
happened  that  after  a  too  liberal  distribution  of 
supplies  among  her  beggars,  she  would  set  be- 
fore us  at  dinner  a  dish  so  ridiculously  out  of 
proportion  to  the  requirements  of  our  appetites 
that  she  would  herself  burst  into  a  laugh  as  she 
looked  at  it.  We  all  joined  in  the  laugh,  which 
seemed  to  make  us  forget  how  hungry  we  were. 
She  was  the  factotum  of  the  house,  and  was  just 
as  exacting  and  despotic  as  she  was  kind. 

On  that  night  she  was  greatly  excited  :  and 
when  she  came  up  to  kiss  my  mother,  instead  of 
folding  her  in  her  arms  as  she  was  in  the  habit 
of  doing,  she  whispered  something  to  her  with 
an  expression  of  importance  and  anger. 

"  Calm  yourself,  Gabrielle ;  calm  yourself," 
my  mother  said  to  her  several  times,  and  I  felt 
her  hand  tremble. 

"  No,  my  dear,  I  cannot  help  it !  And  if  you 
do  not  choose  to  do  it,  I  will  do  it  myself." 

"  You  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  my 
mother.  "  And  you  will  remember  that  I  am 
the  mistress  in  my  own  house." 


The   Yule  Log.  167 

She  pushed  her  gently,  that  the  others  might 
move  along ;  but  Aunt  Gabrielle  joined  the 
women  who  were  going  out,  several  of  whom 
stopped  to  speak  to  her.  They  were  all  making 
gestures  of  indignation  as  they  looked  at  poor 
Marion,  who  had  withdrawn  into  the  darkest 
corner  of  the  hall,  and  there  stood  with  her 
head  down  and  her  face  turned  away  from 
them. 

Finally  they  seemed  to  have  taken  a  resolu- 
tion, and  they  moved  toward  her  as  though  to 
drive  her  away ;  but  they  were  stopped  by  these 
few  words,  uttered  in  a  low  tone,  and  at  which 
all  the  conversations  ceased  at  once. 

"  Come  to  me,  Marion." 

Marion  started  as  though  she  meant  to  spring 
forward ;  but  she  checked  herself  and  crossed 
the  room  slowly  with  hesitating  steps.  My 
mother  kissed  her  on  both  cheeks  just  as  she 
had  kissed  the  others.  I  realized  that  she  was 
performing  what  she  considered  a  duty,  and  that 
she  too  greatly  disapproved  of  my  poor  friend. 

Gabrielle  held  up  her  arms  in  horror. 

"  Do  not  dare  to  come  to  work  to-morrow  !  " 
she  cried  aloud  ;  "  for  you  will  never  work  for  us 
again.  I  discharge  you  ;  do  you  understand  ?" 

She  understood  but  too  well.  It  was  as 
though  she  had  just  heard  her  death-sentence. 
There  was  no  house  but  ours  where  she  could 


1 68  Christmas  Stories. 

find  work  as  a  seamstress,  and  to  discharge  her 
was  like  condemning  her  to  starvation. 

My  mother's  voice  was  heard  again,  low,  but 
full  of  gentle  firmness. 

"  To-morrow  Marion's  work  will  be  taken  to 
her  at  her  own  house." 

"  I  will  not  be  the  one  to  take  it,"  cried  Aunt 
Gabrielle,  whose  words  produced  a  murmur  of 
approbation. 

"  Then  I  will  take  it  myself,"  said  my  mother, 
"  if  I  can  find  no  one  to  obey  me." 

Marion  had  disappeared. 

There  were  only  a  few  women  left ;  their 
cheeks  were  aglow  with  anger.  The  resin  can 
dies  had  been  put  out.  The  room  was  lighted 
by  the  Yule  log  only,  which  blazed  in  the 
fireplace. 

"  Let  us  go  and  pray  God,"  said  my  mother, 
slipping  her  arm  through  that  of  Gabrielle,  who 
protested  and  submitted  at  the  same  time,  and 
kissed  my  mother  fully  ten  times  before  we 
reached  the  church. 

The  church  was  dazzling,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  as  there  was  no  way  of  lighting  it, 
no  lamps  of  any  description,  every  faithful  was 
requested  to  bring  a  light  with  him.  There 
were  surely  a  thousand  persons  in  the  building, 
which  represented  a  thousand  lights.  I  will 
confess  that  these  were  neither  lamps  nor 


The   Yule  Log.  169 

tapers  nor  even  vulgar  tallow  candles.  They 
were  mere  wax  lighters,  which  singly  you  may 
despise  as  you  please,  but  which,  multiplied 
thus,  formed  a  luminous  floor  under  the  dark 
vault :  when  you  looked  down,  it  was  joyous, 
dazzling ;  and  when  you  looked  up,  it  was  ap- 
palling. The  altar  fairly  glittered.  All  of  our 
candles  figured  there  in  addition  to  those  which 
belonged  to  the  church.  There  was  just  room 
enough  between  the  lights  for  the  chalice  and 
the  missal.  The  rector  was  arrayed  in  a  fine 
scarlet  chasuble,  a  bit  worn  and  faded,  which 
had  survived  the  Revolution.  The  mayor  oc- 
cupied the  seat  of  honor,  wearing  the  dress  of 
the  Breton  peasant,  —  blue  vest  embroidered  in 
red  and  yellow  silk,  with  a  splendid  sun  in  the 
middle  of  the  back.  Beside  him  sat  the  deputy 
mayor,  M.  Adelys,  the  miller  of  Kerdroguen ; 
and  both  wore  white  silk  sashes  which  covered 
their  breasts  and  stomachs.  The  blacksmith 
was  there  too  in  his  quality  of  justice's  clerk, 
wearing  the  black  gown  and  cap  of  the  magis- 
tracy. M.  de  la  Goublaye,  the  justice  and 
chevalier  of  Saint  Louis,  had  been  detained  in 
his  chateau  of  Keriennec  by  the  gout.  But  we 
had  a  corporal  of  gendarmery  opposite  the  altar 
and  two  gendarmes  on  either  side  with  yellow 
shoulder-belts.  Plumelec,  where  they  lived, 
would  have  gladly  enough  kept  them  at  home 


170  Christmas  Stories. 

on  such  an  occasion,  but  St.  Jean  Bre'velay 
was  the  chief  town  of  the  canton. 

At  the  appearance  of  the  celebrant  the  cor- 
poral cried  out,  — 

"  Gendarmes,  hands  to  your  sabres  !  "  Where- 
upon the  music,  consisting  of  a  fife  and  a  drum, 
filled  the  church.  That  was  the  supreme  mo- 
ment of  my  life.  I  conquered  sleep  so  as  not 
to  miss  it.  I  thought  of  it  through  the  whole 
year.  You  will  not  wonder,  therefore,  when  I 
tell  you  that  I  forgot  all  about  Marion  from  mid- 
night until  about  two  o'clock. 

Everything  was  over  by  two  o'clock.  The 
fife  and  drum  had  escorted  the  priest  to  the 
rectory  ;  the  quinquiss  had  put  out  the  lights  on 
the  altar ;  and  as  all  the  faithful  had  blown  upon 
their  meagre  luminaries  the  church  was  com- 
pletely dark.  In  a  few  moments  it  was  deserted, 
and  not  a  sound  was  to  be  heard  save  that  of 
the  swaying  pendulum.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
graveyard  was  crowded.  If  it  happened  to  be 
raining  or  snowing  too  hard,  the  people  took  ref- 
uge in  the  houses  ;  but  they  gave  this  proof  of 
weakness  only  when  they  could  no  longer  hold 
out.  The  taverns  were  overflowing  with  cus- 
tomers. Some  people  stood  a  little  table  out  at 
their  door,  and  upon  it  they  placed  a  loaf,  a 
cervelas,  and  numerous  bottles  of  cider,  thus 
defrauding,  in  connivance  with  the  authority, 


The   Yule  Log.  171 

the  tax  on  consumable  commodities.  At  three 
o'clock  the  bells  rang  for  the  Mass  of  the 
Aurora. 

After  the  ceremony  our  people  came  for  us 
and  awaited  us  at  the  church  door  with  a  huge 
red  cotton  umbrella,  which  did  us  as  much 
honor  as  the  same  utensil  does  a  Roman  cardi- 
nal. We  were  also  provided  with  an  extra  pair 
of  wooden  shoes  half  filled  with  warm  ashes. 
We  hastened  home,  exchanging  courtesies  with 
all,  but  stopping  with  no  one  ;  for  there  was  a 
Christmas  supper  in  our  kitchen,  —  a  supper  to 
which  all  our  friends  were  invited,  and  besides 
them  all  the  servants  who  had  been  present  at 
the  blessing  of  the  Yule  log. 

During  midnight  Mass  the  great  kitchen  table 
had  been  replaced  by  boards  laid  as  evenly  as 
possible  upon  props.  These  were  covered  by  a 
cloth  of  dazzling  whiteness,  —  the  pride  of  my 
poor  mother,  who  used  to  bleach  it  on  the  grass 
of  our  meadow.  On  this  occasion  we  had  can- 
dles on  the  table,  —  real  candles,  of  seven  to  the 
pound,  which  were  sent  for  a  week  beforehand 
to  Vannes.  We  considered  our  menu  decidedly 
sumptuous.  We  had  buckwheat  pancakes,  ac- 
companied by  numerous  pots  of  cider  and  the 
most  delicious  butter.  After  that,  we  were 
helped  to  a  porringer  of  the  very  worst  choco- 
late that  was  ever  manufactured  by  a  country 


172  Christmas  Stories. 

grocer.  We  tried  to  convince  ourselves  that 
this  course  was  excellent.  It  had  to  be  served 
on  that  day,  and  to  be  drunk,  and  to  be  praised, 
but  then  we  had  the  pleasure  of  feeling  that  we 
should  not  be  called  upon  to  repeat  the  sacri- 
fice for  a  year.  We  also  had  a  home-cured 
ham  and  rye  bread.  Everybody  stood  up  dur- 
ing the  Benedicite,  then  those  who  found  room 
on  the  benches  sat  down  ;  the  others  helped 
themselves  over  the  heads  of  these  privileged 
ones,  and  took  their  share  out  into  the  street 
with  them. 

The  assailants  succeeded  one  another  until 
the  table  was  cleared.  Everybody  was  cheerful 
and  contented ;  there  was  never  a  man  who 
forgot  himself.  These  peasants,  who  had  had 
no  breeding,  were  by  nature  well-bred.  Then 
they  all  loved  one  another  in  that  country  of  poor 
people ;  and,  above  all,  —  may  I  be  allowed  to 
say  it?  the  thought  is  so  pleasing  to  me  in  my 
old  age,  —  they  all  loved  us. 

I  never  remained  until  the  end.  I  merely 
stepped  in  to  get  a  peep  at  the  beautiful  cele- 
bration and  to  fill  my  eyes  and  my  imagination 
with  it.  On  the  night  to  which  I  refer  I  man- 
aged to  stay  down  longer  than  usual.  I  looked 
for  Marion  everywhere.  There  were  others, 
too,  who  were  looking  for  her.  My  mother's 
conduct  had  been  criticised  and  rather  disap- 


The   Yiile  Log.  173 

proved  of;  for  those  were  simple  folk,  virtuous 
themselves  and  pitiless  to  others.  If  Marion 
had  been  brutally  discharged,  they  would  have 
applauded.  Now  they  believed  her  to  be  for- 
given ;  and  they  felt  her  forgiveness  to  be  in 
a  measure  an  encouragement  to  vice.  Aunt 
Gabrielle  had  found  time  to  speak  to  the  rector, 
to  excuse  Marguerite,  she  said ;  but-  without 
realizing  it  she  had  merely  expressed  her  dis- 
approbation. I  not  only  remember  all  these 
details  after  sixty-five  years,  but  I  remember  the 
room  in  which  the  scene  took  place.  I  can 
even  evoke  the  faces  and  the  attitudes,  —  the 
saintly  protectress,  somewhat  moved,  but  very 
resolute ;  the  rector,  restless  and  anxious ;  Ga- 
brielle and  her  confederates,  pitiless  in  their 
censure.  Although  not  a  word  had  been  ut- 
tered in  my  presence  concerning  the  nature  of 
Marion's  fault,  I  had  understood  it  all,  thanks  to 
"  Celina,"  no  doubt.  It  is  useless  to  state  which 
side  my  heart  was  on.  The  priest  was  anxious 
above  all  things  to  preserve  in  our  parish  those 
rigid  customs  for  which  we  were  famed. 

"  A  moral  plague  must  be  treated  just  like  a 
physical  plague,  with  heroic  remedies,"  said  he. 

"  We  must  be  charitable,"  said  my  mother. 
"Our  God  is  a  God  of  charity." 

The  priest  was  of  the  opinion  that  the  sinner 
should  not  under  any  consideration  be  allowed 


174  Christmas  Stories. 

to  come  back  to  the  house  and  work  among  the 
maid-servants. 

"  Why,  of  course  not ;  I  never  thought  of 
such  a  thing,"  said  my  mother,  in  that  sweet 
voice  of  hers  that  reached  one's  soul.  "We 
must  make  this  an  example,  a  warning  for  our 
girls.  I  will  see  to  that,  never  fear.  I  am  just 
as  anxious  about  it  as  you  are.  She  will  live 
alone  with  her  child.  I  did  not  care  to  crush 
her  under  the  weight  of  a  public  anathema,  nor 
would  I  be  so  inexorable  as  to  condemn  her  to 
mendicity  or  debauch,  that  is  all.  I  said  to  my 
poor  Gabrielle,  who  is  so  ungovernable  to-night," 
she  added,  smiling,  "  that  I  would  take  her  work 
myself  if  I  found  nobody  to  obey  me  ;  but  that 
is  not  exactly  what  I  meant.  What  I  meant 
was  this  :  I  will  go  to  her  myself ;  I  will  go  every 
day.  I  will  assume,  or  rather  encroach  upon 
your  rights.  I  will  exhort,  I  will  preach  to  her ; 
I  will  make  her  see  that  she  is  among  sisters 
whom  her  conduct  has  grieved,  but  among 
sisters,  nevertheless." 

She  said  all  this  with  kindness,  simplicity,  and 
firmness. 

The  priest  lifted  his  broad-brimmed  hat  from 
his  head.  "  I  uncover  my  white  hair  before  you, 
Madame,"  said  he,  in  a  loud  voice,  "and  J  pray 
God  to  bless  the  task  that  you  have  undertaken 
for  his  sake.  My  children,  Marion  will  come 


The   Yule  Log.  175 

back  and  work  among  you  when  she  has  made 
atonement  for  her  fault.  Until  then  I  leave 
her  entirely  in  your  mistress's  hands.  If  she 
does  not  lead  her  back  to  the  path  of  virtue, 
we  priests  will  have  to  give  it  up.  Our  Latin 
will  not  help  us  out  of  it." 

This  very  mild  pleasantry  excited  much  ad- 
miration, as  everything  did  that  fell  from  those 
venerable  lips. 

For  my  part  I  was  delighted,  having  a  con- 
fused impression  that  we  had  gained  a  great 
victory ;  and  I  ran  off  to  bed  after  having  kissed 
my  mother  with  unusual  tenderness. 


THE   MULE    AND 
THE   OX. 

From  the  Spanish  of  BENITO 

P6REZ   GALD5S. 

I. 

POOR  little  one  had  ceased 
to  moan ;  she  turned  her 
head  slightly  and  stared 

with  wide  eyes  at  those  who  stood  around  her 
bed ;  her  breath  came  fainter,  fainter,  until  it 
stopped  altogether.  She  was  dead.  The  guar- 
dian angel  uttered  a  deep  sigh,  unfolded  his 
wings,  and  flew  away. 

The  poor  mother  could  not  believe  in  the 
reality  of  so  much  sorrow ;  still  Celinina's  ex- 
quisite face  was  growing  diaphanous  and  yellow, 
like  wax ;  her  limbs  were  cold ;  and  her  body 
finally  became  rigid  and  hard  like  that  of  a  doll. 
Then  the  mother  was  led  away  from  the  alcove, 
while  the  father,  the  nearest  relatives,  two  or 
three  friends,  and  the  servants  performed  the  last 
duties  toward  the  dead  child. 

They  dressed  her  in  a  beautiful  gown  of  lawn 
that  was  as  white  and  as  sheer  as  a  cloud,  and 


1 78  Christmas  Stories. 

covered  with  frills  and  laces  that  looked  like 
foam.  They  put  on  her  shoes,  which  were  white 
too,  and  whose  soles  showed  that  they  had  taken 
but  few  steps.  They  braided  her  lovely  dark 
chestnut  hair,  and  arranged  it  gracefully  about 
her  head,  intertwining  it  with  blue  ribbons. 
They  tried  to  find  fresh  flowers,  but  the  season 
was  too  far  advanced,  and  there  were  none  to 
be  had ;  so  they  made  her  a  wreath  of  artificial 
ones,  selecting  only  those  which  were  beautiful 
and  which  might  have  been  mistaken  for  real  blos- 
soms just  from  the  garden.  Then  a  very  repul- 
sive man  brought  a  box,  just  a  trifle  larger  than 
the  case  of  a  violin,  lined  with  blue  silk  and  elabo- 
rately adorned  with  white  satin  and  silver  braid. 
Celinina  was  laid  in  it :  an  exquisite  soft  pillow 
was  placed  under  her  head,  so  that  her  position 
might  not  seem  strained  ;  and  when  she  had  been 
carefully  and  tenderly  fixed  in  her  funereal  couch, 
they  crossed  her  little  hands,  tied  them  together 
with  a  ribbon,  and  slipped  a  bunch  of  white 
roses  between  them,  —  roses  so  artistically  fash- 
ioned that  they  seemed  to  be  the  very  children 
of  Spring. 

The  women  threw  gorgeous  draperies  over  a 
table,  adorned  it  like  an  altar,  and  laid  the  coffin 
upon  it.  They  arranged  other  altars,  too,  after 
the  manner  of  church  canopies,  with  fine  white 
curtains,  gracefully  caught  back  on  either  side. 


The  Mule  and  the  Ox.  179 

They  brought  a  great  quantity  of  saints  and 
images  from  other  rooms,  which  they  disposed 
with  great  art  in  symmetrical  groups,  forming  a 
sort  of  funereal  court  around  the  departed  angel. 
They  also  brought  in,  without  losing  a  moment, 
the  great  candelabrum  from  the  parlor,  and 
lighted  several  dozen  tapers,  which  shed  their 
mournful  glow  upon  Celinina.  Then  they  kissed 
the  child's  frozen  cheek  again  and  again,  and 
their  pious  task  was  done. 

II. 

From  the  other  end  of  the  house,  from  the 
depths  of  the  bedrooms,  came  the  moans  of  a 
man  and  a  woman,  the  heart-rending  lamenta- 
tions of  the  parents  who  could  not  be  convinced 
of  the  truth  of  those  aphorisms  about  angels  in 
heaven,  administered  by  friends  as  a  sort  of  mor- 
al sedative  on  these  occasions.  They  believed, 
on  the  contrary,  that  this  world  is  the  proper 
and  natural  habitation  for  angels ;  nor  could 
they  admit  the  theory  that  the  death  of  a  grown 
person  is  far  more  lamentable  and  disastrous 
than  that  of  a  child.  Mingled  with  their  grief 
was  that  profound  pity  which  the  death-agony  of 
an  infant  always  inspires,  and  to  them  there  was 
no  sorrow  in  life  like  that  which  was  tearing 
their  very  vitals.  A  thousand  memories  and 


180  Christmas  Stories. 

painful  visions  struck  at  their  hearts  like  so  many 
daggers.  The  mother's  ears  rang  with  Celi- 
nina's  lispings,  —  that  enchanting  baby-talk  that 
gets  everything  wrong,  and  converts  the  words 
of  our  language  into  delicious  philological  cari- 
catures, which  caricatures,  flowing  from  rosy 
mouths,  are  the  tenderest  and  most  affecting 
music  to  a  mother's  heart. 

Nothing  so  characterizes  a  child  as  his  style,  — 
his  spontaneous  mode  of  expression,  the  art  of 
saying  everything  with  four  letters,  his  prehis- 
toric grammar,  which  is  like  the  first  sobbing  of 
the  words  at  the  dawn  of  humanity,  his  simple 
rules  of  declension  and  conjugation,  innocent 
corrections  of  the  languages  which  usage  has  le- 
gitimatized. The  vocabulary  of  a  child  of  three, 
like  Celinina,  is  the  real  literary  treasure  of  a 
family.  How  could  her  mother  ever  forget  the 
little  pink  tongue  that  said  "  wat  "  for  hat,  and 
called  a  bean  a  "  ween  "  !  No  matter  where  she 
turned,  the  good  woman's  eyes  were  sure  to 
fall  upon  some  of  the  toys  with  which  Celinina 
had  cheered  the  last  days  of  her  life  ;  and  as 
these  were  the  days  that  preceded  Christmas, 
the  floor  was  strewn  with  little  clay  turkeys  on 
wire  legs,  a  Saint  Joseph  that  had  lost  both 
hands,  a  manger  in  which  lay  the  Christ-Child, 
like  a  little  pink  ball,  a  wise  man  from  the 
Orient  mounted  upon  a  proud,  headless  camel. 


The  Mule  and  the  Ox.  181 

What  these  poor  little  figures  had  endured  dur- 
ing the  past  few  days,  dragged  here  and  there, 
made  to  assume  this  or  that  posture,  was  known 
only  to  God,  the  mother,  and  the  pure  little  spirit 
that  had  taken  its  flight. 

All  this  broken  statuary  was  imbued  with 
Celinina's  very  soul,  —  clothed  with  a  peculiar 
sad  light,  which  was  the  light  from  her,  as  it 
were.  The  mother  trembled  from  head  to  foot 
as  she  gazed  at  them,  and  she  felt  that  the  wound 
had  been  dealt  to  her  innermost  being.  Strange 
association  of  things  !  How  all  these  broken 
pieces  of  clay  seemed  to  weep  !  They  seemed 
so  grieved,  so  full  of  intense  sorrow,  that  the 
sight  of  them  was  scarcely  less  bitter  than  the 
spectacle  of  the  dying  child  herself,  who  with 
appealing  eyes  begged  her  parents  to  take  the 
pain  away  from  her  burning  head.  To  the 
mother  nothing  could  have  been  more  pathetic 
than  that  turkey  with  its  wire  legs,  which  in  its 
frequent  changes  of  posture  had  lost  its  crest 
and  its  bill. 

III. 

The  mother's  grief  was  surely  intense,  but  the 
father's  affliction  was  still  more  profound.  She 
was  transpierced  with  sorrow,  —  his  pain  was 
aggravated  by  the  stings  of  remorse.  This  is 
how  it  came  about.  It  will  no  doubt  seem  very 


1 82  Christmas  Stories. 

childish  to  some  people ;  however,  let  them  bear 
in  mind  that  nothing  is  more  open  to  childish- 
ness than  a  deep,  pure  sorrow,  free  from  any 
touch  of  worldly  interests  or  the  secondary  suffer- 
ings of  unsatisfied  egoism. 

From  the  very  first  and  all  through  her  illness 
Celinina's  mind  was  filled  with  dreams  of  Christ- 
mas, —  of  the  poetic  celebration  supremely  de- 
lightful to  children.  We  all  know  how  they  long 
for  the  joyful  day,  how  crazed  they  are  by  the 
feverish  yearning  for  presents  and  Bethlehem 
mangers,  by  the  thought  of  how  much  they  will 
eat,  by  the  prospect  of  satiating  themselves  with 
turkey,  sponge-cake,  candied  almonds,  and  nut- 
pastes.  Some  little  ones  ingenuously  believe  that 
were  they  only  allowed  to  do  so,  they  might  easily 
stow  away  in  their  stomachs  all  the  displays  of 
the  Plaza  Mayor  and  the  adjacent  streets. 

Celinina  in  her  intervals  of  relief  gave  her 
whole  soul  to  the  engrossing  theme.  Her  little 
cousins,  who  came  to  sit  with  her,  were  older  than 
she,  and  had  exhausted  the  entire  fund  of  human 
knowledge  with  regard  to  celebrations,  presents, 
and  Bethlehem  mangers.  The  poor  child's  fancy 
and  her  longing  for  toys  and  sweets  accordingly 
grew  more  and  more  excited  as  she  listened  to 
them.  In  her  delirium,  when  the  fever  dragged 
her  into  its  oven  of  torture,  her  prattle  was  of 
the  things  that  preyed  upon  her  mind ;  and  it 


The  Mule  and  the  Ox.  183 

was  all  about  beating  drums  and  tam-tams,  and 
singing  Christmas  carols.  The  darkness  of  her 
brain  was  peopled  with  turkeys,  crying,  gobble  ! 
gobble  !  and  chickens  that  said,  peep  !  peep  ! 
mountains  of  nut-pastes  that  reached  up  to  the 
skies,  forming  a  guadarrama  of  almonds,  Beth- 
lehem mangers  full  of  lights,  and  in  which  there 
were  fifty  thousand  million  figures  at  the  very  least, 
great  bouquets  of  sweetmeats,  trees  laden  with 
as  many  toys  as  can  be*  conceived  by  the  most 
fecund  Tyrolese  imagination,  the  pond  of  the 
Retriro  filled  with  almond  soup,  red  gilt-heads 
looking  up  at  the  cooks  with  coagulated  eyes, 
oranges  falling  from  the  skies  in  far  greater  quan- 
tities than  the  drops  of  water  during  a  rain- 
storm, and  thousands  and  thousands  of  other 
inexpressible  prodigies. 

IV. 

Celinina  was  an  only  child  ;  and  when  she  was 
taken  ill,  her  father's  uneasiness  and  anxiety  knew 
no  limit.  His  business  called  him  away  during 
the  day,  but  he  managed  to  run  in  every  now 
and  then  to  see  how  the  little  invalid  was.  The 
disease  pursued  its  course  with  treacherous 
alternatives,  giving  and  withdrawing  hope. 

The  good  man  had  his  misgivings.  The  pic- 
ture of  Celinina,  lying  in  her  little  bed  crushed 


184  Christmas  Stories. 

with  pain  and  fever,  never  left  his  mind  for  a  mo- 
ment. He  was  heedful  of  everything  that  might 
cheer  her  and  brighten  the  gloom  of  her  suffer- 
ing, so  ever)'  night  he  brought  home  with  him 
some  Christmas  present,  something  different 
every  time,  scrupulously  avoiding  sweets,  how- 
ever. One  day  he  brought  a  flock  of  turkeys,  so 
cleverly  made,  so  lifelike,  that  one  fairly  expected 
to  hear  them  gobble.  The  next  night  he  drew 
one  half  of  the  Holy  Family  from  his  pockets,  then 
again  a  little  Saint  Joseph,  the  manger  and  the 
portico  of  the  Bethlehem  stable.  Once  it  was  a 
superb  drove  of  sheep  driven  by  proud  shep- 
herds, and  later  on  he  brought  some  washer- 
women washing  their  clothes,  and  a  sausage- 
maker  selling  sausages,  and  two  Magi,  one  black 
and  the  other  with  a  white  beard  and  a  golden 
crown.  What  did  he  not  bring?  He  even 
brought  an  old  woman  very  indecorously  spank- 
ing a  small  boy  for  not  knowing  his  lesson. 
From  what  she  had  heard  her  cousins  say  about 
the  requirements  of  a  Bethlehem  manger,  Celi- 
nina  knew  that  hers  was  incomplete,  and  this  for 
want  of  two  very  important  figures,  —  the  Mule 
and  the  Ox.  Of  course  she  had  no  idea  of  the 
significance  of  the  Mule  or  the  Ox ;  but  in  her 
thirst  for  absolute  perfection  of  composition,  she 
asked  her  solicitous  father  again  and  again  for 
the  two  animals,  which  seemed  to  be  about  the 


The  Mule  and  the  Ox.  185 

only  things  that  the  good  man  had  left  in  the 
toy  shops.  He  accordingly  promised  to  bring 
them,  and  took  a  firm  resolution  not  to  come 
home  without  both  beasts ;  but  it  happened 
that  on  that  day,  which  was  the  23d,  he  had 
an  accumulation  of  things  to  do.  Besides,  as 
luck  would  have  it,  the  drawing  of  the  lottery 
took  place  just  then,  he  was  notified  of  having 
won  a  lawsuit,  not  to  speak  of  the  arrival  of  two 
affectionate  friends  who  managed  to  keep  in  his 
way  all  the  morning  :  so  he  came  home  without 
the  Mule  or  the  Ox. 

Celinina  was  greatly  disappointed  when  she 
found  that  he  had  not  brought  her  the  two 
jewels  that  were  to  complete  her  treasure.  The 
good  man  was  about  to  repair  his  fault  immedi- 
ately, but  just  then  the  doctor  came  in.  Celi- 
nina had  grown  considerably  worse  during  the 
day ;  and  as  his  words  were  far  from  comforting, 
nobody  thought  of  mules  or  oxen. 

On  the  24th  the  poor  father  resolved  not  to 
leave  the  house.  For  a  brief  moment,  how- 
ever, Celinina  seemed  so  much  better  that  her 
parents  were  wild  with  hope,  and  the  father  said 
joyously,  — 

"I  am  going  right  out  to  get  those  things." 

But  it  was  not  a  moment  before  Celinina  fell 
into  an  intense  fever,  just  as  a  bird,  wounded  in 
its  upward  flight  through  the  pure  regions  of  the 


1 86  Christmas  Stories. 

air,  drops  swiftly  to  the  ground.  She  tossed 
about,  trembling  and  suffocating  in  the  hot  arms 
of  her  disease,  that  tightened  around  her  and 
shook  her  violently  as  if  to  eject  her  life.  In 
the  confusion  of  her  delirium,  on  the  broken 
waves  of  her  thoughts,  like  the  one  thing  saved 
from  a  cataclysm,  floated  the  persistent  yearning, 
the  idea  of  that  longed-for  mule  and  that  sighed- 
tor  ox. 

The  father  rushed  out  of  the  house  like  a 
madman,  then  suddenly,  "This  is  no  time  to 
think  of  figures  for  a  Bethlehem  manger," 
thought  he ;  and  running  here  and  there,  climb- 
ing stairs  and  ringing  door-bells,  he  succeeded 
in  getting  seven  or  eight  doctors,  whom  he  took 
home  with  him.  Celinina  should  be  saved  at 
any  cost. 

V. 

But  apparently  it  was  not  the  will  of  God  that 
the  seven  or  eight  disciples  of  ^Esculapius  should 
interfere  with  the  orders  he  had  given,  so  Celi- 
nina grew  worse  and  worse,  struggling  with  in- 
describable anguish,  like  a  bruised  butterfly 
quivering  with  broken  wings  on  the  ground. 
Her  parents  bent  over  her  with  wild  anxiety,  as 
though  they  expected  to  detain  her  in  this  world 
by  the  power  of  their  will,  as  though  they  ex- 


The  Mule  and  the  Ox.  187 

pected  to  arrest  the  rapid  course  of  human  dis- 
organization, and  breathe  their  own  life  into  the 
little  martyr,  who  was  exhaling  hers  in  a  sigh. 

From  the  street  came  the  thumping  of  drums 
and  the  jingling  of  tambourines.  Celinina 
opened  her  eyes ;  and  with  an  appealing  look 
and  a  few  solemn  words,  which  seemed  already 
the  language  of  another  world,  she  asked  her 
father  for  that  which  he  had  failed  to  bring  her. 
The  father  and  mother,  in  their  distress,  thought 
of  deceiving  her ;  and  with  the  hope  of  casting 
a  ray  of  happiness  through  the  misery  of  this 
supreme  moment  they  handed  her  the  turkeys, 
saying,  "  Look,  my  darling,  here  are  the  little 
mule  and  the  little  ox." 

But  Celinina,  even  at  the  point  of  death,  was 
conscious  enough  to  know  that  turkeys  can 
never  be  anything  but  turkeys ;  and  she  pushed 
them  away  gently.  From  that  time  on  she  lay 
still  with  her  great  eyes  fixed  on  her  parents, 
and  her  little  hand  on  her  head  to  show  them 
where  the  terrible  pain  was.  That  rhythmical 
sound  which  is  like  the  last  vibration  of  life 
gradually  grew  fainter  and  fainter,  until  it  was 
hushed  entirely,  like  the  machinery  of  a  clock 
that  has  stopped,  and  the  dainty  little  girl  was 
only  an  exquisite  scrap  of  matter,  inert,  cold, 
and  as  white  and  transparent  as  the  sublimated 
wax  that  burns  on  the  altars. 


1 88  Christmas  Stories. 

Now  you  understand  the  father's  remorse. 
To  bring  his  little  Celinina  back  to  life  he  would 
have  scoured  the  face  of  the  earth  and  collected 
all  the  oxen  and  all  the  mules  upon  it.  The 
thought  of  not  having  satisfied  this  innocent 
desire  was  the  sharpest  and  coldest  blade  that 
pierced  his  heart.  Vainly  did  he  appeal  to  his 
reason  ;  of  what  account  was  his  reason  ?  He 
was  quite  as  much  of  a  child  as  the  little  one 
asleep  in  the  coffin,  for  he  gave  greater  impor- 
tance to  a  toy  just  then  than  to  anything  else 
on  earth  or  in  heaven. 


VI 


The  moans  of  despair  at  last  died  away  in  the 
house,  as  if  grief,  piercing  its  way  into  the  very 
depths  of  the  soul,  which  is  its  natural  dwelling- 
place,  had  closed  after  it  the  windows  of  the 
senses,  so  as  to  be  alone  and  luxuriate  in 
itself. 

This  was  Christmas  Eve ;  and  while  stillness 
reigned  in  the  home  so  recently  visited  by 
death,  from  all  the  other  houses  and  from  the 
streets  of  the  city  came  the  joyous  roar  of  rude 
musical  instruments  and  the  clamorous  voices  of 
children  and  adults  singing  the  advent  of  the 
Messiah.  The  shouts  from  the  flat  above  could 
be  heard  in  the  very  parlor  where  the  dead 


The  Mule  and  the  Ox.  189 

child  lay  ;  and  the  pious  women  who  sat  with  her 
were  perturbed  in  their  sorrow  and  their  devout 
meditation.  On  the  upper  floor  many  small 
children,  with  a  still  greater  number  of  large 
ones,  happy  papas  and  mammas,  excited  aunts 
and  uncles,  were  celebrating  Christmas  and  were 
going  mad  with  delight  before  the  most  admi- 
rable Bethlehem  manger  that  was  ever  dreamed 
of  and  the  most  luxuriant  tree  that  ever  grew 
toys  and  sweetmeats,  and  which  bore  on  its 
limbs  a  thousand  lighted  tapers.  The  parlor 
ceiling  seemed  to  shake  under  the  great  commo- 
tion ;  the  poor  little  corpse  quivered  in  its  blue 
coffin  ;  and  all  the  lights  in  the  room  oscillated 
as  though  they  wished  to  proclaim  that  they  too 
were  somewhat  tipsy.  Two  of  the  good  women 
retired  ;  one  alone  remained,  but  her  head  felt 
very  heavy,  no  doubt  because  she  had  lost  so 
much  sleep  on  the  preceding  nights ;  so  after 
a  little  her  chin  sank  on  her  breast  and  every- 
thing melted  from  her  consciousness. 

The  lights  continued  to  waver,  although  there 
was  no  draught  in  the  room.  One  might  have 
believed  that  invisible  wings  were  fluttering 
about  the  altar.  The  lace  on  Celinina's  gown 
rose  and  fell;  and  the  petals  of  her  artificial 
flowers  betrayed  the  passage  of  a  playful  breeze, 
or  the  soft  touch  of  tender  hands.  Just  then 
Celinina  opened  her  eyes.  They  filled  the 


190  Christmas  Stories. 

room  with  bright  inquiring  glances  cast  down 
and  up  and  around  her.  She  instantly  unclasped 
her  hands,  the  ribbon  that  bound  them  together 
offering  no  resistance  ;  and  closing  her  little  fists, 
she  rubbed  both  eyes  as  children  do  when  they 
awake.  Then  with  a  quick  movement,  and 
without  the  slightest  effort,  she  sat  up,  and  look- 
ing upward  at  the  ceiling,  she  began  to  laugh,  — 
a  peculiar  inaudible  laugh  apparent  to  the  eyes 
alone.  The  one  sound  that  reached  the  ear 
was  the  rapid  beating  of  wings,  as  if  all  the 
doves  of  the  earth  were  flying  in  and  out  of  the 
death- chamber,  brushing  their  feathers  against 
the  walls  and  ceiling.  Then  Celinina  rose  to 
her  feet,  stretched  out  her  arms,  and  two  short 
white  wings  sprouted  from  her  shoulders.  They 
flapped  and  beat  for  a  few  seconds;  then  she 
rose  in  the  air  and  disappeared. 

In  the  parlor  everything  remained  as  it  was ; 
the  lights  glowed  on  the  altar,  pouring  copious 
streams  of  melted  wax  on  the  bobeches.  The 
images  all  stood  in  their  places  without  moving 
an  arm  or  a  leg  or  unsealing  their  austere  lips. 
The  good  woman  was  plunged  in  a  profound 
sleep  which  must  have  been  a  special  blessing  to 
her.  Nothing  had  changed,  except  that  the 
little  blue  coffin  had  been  left  empty. 


The  Mule  and  the  Ox.  191 


VII. 

What  a  royal  celebration  at  the  home  of  the 

Senores  of to-night !  The  house  is  filled 

with  the  thunder  of  drums.  Children  cannot  be 
made  to  understand  that  they  might  enjoy  things 
a  great  deal  more  if  they  only  omitted  the  infernal 
noise  of  the  warlike  instrument.  But  this  is  not 
all.  In  order  that  no  human  tympanum  may  be 
left  in  condition  to  perform  its  natural  functions 
the  next  day,  they  have  added  to  the  drum  the 
thumping  of  the  zambomba,  —  that  hellish  con- 
trivance whose  sounds  were  intended  to  repro- 
duce the  growls  of  Satan.  The  symphony  is 
completed  by  the  tambourine,  which,  like  the 
rattling  of  old  tin  pans,  would  irritate  the  most 
placid  nerves ;  and  still  this  discordant  hub- 
bub without  rhythm  or  melody,  more  primitive 
than  the  music  of  savages,  is  inspiriting  and 
cheerful  on  this  particular  night,  and  bears  some- 
thing of  a  distant  likeness  to  a  celestial  choir. 

The  Bethlehem  manger  is  not  a  work  of  art 
to  the  adults ;  but  to  the  children  the  figures 
are  so  beautiful,  there  is  such  a  mystic  expres- 
sion on  their  countenances  and  so  much  pro- 
priety in  their  costumes,  that  they  scarcely 
believe  them  to  be  the  work  of  human  hands, 
and  are  inclined  to  lay  it  all  to  the  industry  of  a 


192  Christmas  S fortes. 

certain  class  of  angels  who  make  a  living  by 
working  in  clay.  The  entrance  of  the  stable, 
carved  out  of  cork,  and  imitating  a  partly  ruined 
Roman  arch,  is  a  dream  of  beauty  ;  and  the  little 
river  made  of  looking-glass,  with  its  green  spots 
representing  aquatic  growths  and  the  moss  of 
its  banks,  seems  really  to  be  rippling  along 
the  table  with  a  soft  murmur.  The  bridge  over 
which  the  shepherds  are  coming  is  a  master- 
piece. Never  before  was  pasteboard  known  to 
look  so  exactly  like  stone,  —  a  striking  contrast 
this  to  the  works  of  our  modern  engineers,  who 
build  bridges  of  stone,  that  look  exactly  like 
pasteboard.  The  mountain  that  rises  in  the 
centre  of  the  landscape  might  be  taken  for  a 
scrap  of  the  Pyrenees ;  and  its  exquisite  cot- 
tages, a  trifle  smaller  than  the  figures,  and  its 
mimic  trees  with  little  limbs  of  real  foliage  are 
far  more  real  than  Nature. 

But  the  most  attractive,  the  most  characteris- 
tic figures  are  those  on  the  plain,  —  the  washer- 
women washing  clothes  at  the  stream ;  the 
chicken  and  turkey  tenders  driving  their  flocks 
before  them  ;  then  an  officer  of  the  civil  guards 
taking  two  scamps  off  to  jail ;  gentlemen  riding 
in  luxurious  carriages,  brushing  past  the  camel 
of  the  Magi ;  and  Perico,  the  blind  man,  playing 
on  the  guitar  to  a  little  group  of  people  through 
which  the  shepherds  have  elbowed  their  way  on 


The  Mule  and  the  Ox.  193 

their  return  from  their  worship  at  the  manger. 
A  tram-car  runs  along  from  one  extremity  of  the 
landscape  to  the  other,  just  exactly  as  it  does  in 
the  Salamanca  quarter ;  and  as  it  has  wheels  and 
real  tracks,  it  is  kept  going  from  east  to  west, 
much  to  the  surprise  of  the  black  Magi,  who 
cannot  make  out  what  sort  of  a  machine  it  can 
possibly  be. 

The  arch  opens  upon  a  beautiful  square,  in 
the  centre  of  which  stands  a  little  glass  aqua- 
rium. A  short  distance  away  a  newsboy  is 
selling  papers,  and  two  Majos  are  dancing  pret- 
tily. The  capital  pieces  of  this  marvellous  peo- 
ple of  clay,  those  upon  which  all  eyes  are 
centred,  are  the  fritter-vender  and  the  old  wo- 
man selling  chestnuts  on  the  street  corner ; 
and  the  children  fairly  split  their  sides  at  the 
sight  of  the  small  ragamuffin,  who  holds  out  a 
lottery  ticket  to  the  old  chestnut  woman,  while 
with  the  other  hand  he  quietly  pilfers  her  nuts. 

In  a  word,  there  is  no  Bethlehem  manger  in 
all  Madrid  that  can  be  compared  to  this  one ; 
for  this  is  one  of  the  great  homes  of  the  capital, 
and  the  parlors  are  crowded  with  the  best-bred 
and  most  beautiful  children  to  be  found  within 
a  radius  of  twenty  streets. 


194  Christmas  Stories. 


VIII. 

And  how  about  the  tree?  The  tree  is  com- 
posed of  oak  and  cedar  limbs.  The  solicitous 
friend  of  the  family  who  expended  no  small 
amount  of  patience  and  ingenuity  in  its  con- 
struction declares  that  a  more  finished  and  per- 
fect piece  of  work  never  left  his  hands.  It 
would  be  impossible  to  count  the  presents  that 
dangle  from  its  branches.  According  to  the 
computation  of  a  small  boy  present,  they  are 
more  numerous  than  the  grains  of  sand  on  the 
seashore.  There  are  sweetmeats  nestling  in 
shells  of  frilled  paper,  mandarins  which  are  the 
wee  babes  of  the  oranges,  chestnuts  draped  in 
mantillas  of  silver  paper,  tiny  boxes  containing 
bonbons  of  homoeopathic  proportions,  figures  of 
every  variety,  on  foot  and  on  horseback,  —  in  a 
word,  everything  that  God  ever  created  with  a 
view  to  its  being  perfected  later  on  by  the  con- 
fectioner or  sold  by  Scropp,  has  been  put  here 
by  hands  which  are  as  liberal  as  they  are  skilful. 
This  tree  of  life  is  illumined  by  such  an  abun- 
dance of  little  wax  tapers  that  according  to  the 
testimony  of  a  four-year-old  guest  there  were 
more  lights  there  than  the  stars  in  heaven.  The 
delight  of  this  youthful  swarm  is  not  comparable 
to  any  human  sentiment.  It  is  the  ineffable  joy 


The  Mule  and  the  Ox.  195 

of  the  celestial  choirs  in  presence  of  the  Su- 
preme Good  and  Supreme  Beauty.  They  are 
almost  reasonable  in  their  overflowing  satisfac- 
tion ;  and  they  stand  half  perplexed  in  a  seraphic 
ecstasy,  with  their  whole  soul  in  their  eyes,  an- 
ticipating all  that  they  are  going  to  eat,  floating 
like  angels  of  heaven  in  the  pure  ether  of  sweet 
and  delicious  things,  in  the  perfume  of  flowers 
and  cinnamon,  in  the  increate  essence  of  youth- 
ful greediness  and  play. 

IX. 

But  they  are  suddenly  startled  by  a  sound 
which  does  not  proceed  from  them.  They  all 
look  up  at  the  ceiling ;  and  as  they  see  nothing 
there,  they  all  look  at  one  another  again  and  be- 
gin to  laugh.  A  great  rushing  sound  is  heard, 
—  the  rustle  of  wings  as  they  brush  against  the 
walls  and  strike  the  ceiling.  Had  they  been 
blind,  they  might  have  believed  that  all  the 
doves  from  all  the  dovecots  in  the  universe 
had  gotten  into  the  parlor.  But  they  saw  noth- 
ing ;  that  is,  no  wings,  absolutely  none.  What 
they  did  see,  however,  was  phenomenal  and 
inexplicable  enough  in  itself.  All  the  figures  of 
the  Bethlehem  manger  began  to  move ;  they 
were  all  very  quietly  being  changed  around. 
The  tram-car  made  an  ascension  to  the  very 


196  Christmas  Stories. 

pinnacle  of  the  mountain  ;  and  the  Magi  walked 
straight  into  the  river  on  all  fours.  The  turkeys 
passed  under  the  arch  and  entered  the  stable 
without  saying  by  your  leave  ;  and  Saint  Joseph 
stepped  out  in  a  state  of  perplexity,  trying  to 
make  out  what  could  be  the  cause  of  such  ex- 
traordinary confusion.  Then  a  number  of  fig- 
ures were  very  coolly  tumbled  off  on  the  floor. 
At  first  they  had  been  moved  about  very  care- 
fully, but  suddenly  there  was  a  great  stir,  then 
a  perfect  hurly-burly,  in  which  a  hundred  thou- 
sand busy  hands  seemed  eager  to  turn  every 
thing  topsy-turvy.  It  was  a  miniature  of  the 
universal  cataclysm.  Its  secular  cement  giving 
way,  the  mountain  was  levelled  ;  the  river  changed 
its  course  ;  and  scattering  the  broken  bits  of  mir- 
ror from  its  bed,  it  overflowed  the  plain  dis- 
astrously. The  very  roofs  of  the  cottages  were 
sunken  in  the  sand.  The  Roman  arch  trembled 
as  though  it  were  beaten  by  fierce  winds ;  and 
as  a  number  of  little  lights  went  out,  the  sun 
was  obscured,  and  so  were  the  luminaries  of  the 
night.  In  the  midst  of  the  general  stupor  that 
such  a  phenomenon  naturally  produced,  some 
of  the  little  ones  laughed  wildly,  while  others 
cried.  A  superstitious  old  lady  said,  "  Don't 
you  know  who  is  doing  all  this?  Why,  the 
dead  children  who  are  in  heaven  and  whom 
Father  God  permits  to  come  down  on 


The  Mule  and  the  Ox.  197 

Christmas  Eve  and  play  with  the  Bethlehem 
mangers." 

After  a  little  it  was  all  over ;  the  rushing 
sound  of  beating  wings  grew  fainter  and  fainter. 
Many  of  those  who  were  present  proceeded 
to  investigate  the  damages.  One  gentleman 
said,  — 

"  Why,  the  table  has  been  broken  down  and 
all  the  figures  have  been  upset?"  Then  every- 
body began  to  pick  up  the  figures  and  put  them 
in  their  places.  After  counting  them  over  and 
identifying  them,  it  was  found  that  some  were 
missing.  They  looked  everywhere,  and  looked 
again,  but  to  no  effect.  There  were  two  figures 
wanting,  —  the  Mule  and  the  Cx. 

X. 

Just  a  little  before  dawn  the  disturbers  were 
on  the  road  to  heaven,  as  merry  as  crickets, 
frisking  and  skipping  about  among  the  clouds. 
There  were  millions  and  millions  of  them,  all 
beautiful,  pure,  divine,  with  short  white  wings 
beating  faster  than  those  of  the  swiftest  birds  on 
earth. 

This  white  swarm  was  greater  than  anything 
that  the  eye  can  focus  in  visible  space,  and  it 
spread  over  the  moon  and  the  stars,  and  the  firma- 
ment seemed  filled  with  little  fleecy  clouds. 


198  Christmas  Stories. 

"Hurry,  hurry,  my  dears!"  said  a  voice 
among  them  ;  "  the  first  thing  you  know  it  will 
be  day,  and  Grandpapa  God  will  scold  us  for 
being  late.  If  the  truth  must  be  told,  the  Beth- 
lehem mangers  this  year  are  not  worth  a  penny. 
When  I  recall  those  of  former  times  —  "  Celinina 
was  one  of  this  merry  throng,  but  as  this  was  her 
first  experience  in  those  altitudes,  she  felt  some- 
what giddy. 

"  Come  over  here,"  one  of  them  cried  to  her ; 
"  give  me  your  hand,  and  you  will  fly  straighter 
—  but  what  is  that?  What  have  you  there?" 

"  'Em  's  my  sings,"  said  Celinina,  pressing  two 
rude  little  clay  figures  to  her  bosom. 

"  Listen,  my  dear  ,  throw  those  away.  It  is 
very  evident  that  you  are  just  from  the  earth. 
Let  me  tell  you  how  it  is.  Although  we  have 
all  the  toys  we  want  in  heaven,  —  eternal  and 
ever-beautiful  toys,  —  Grandpapa  God  lets  us 
go  down  on  Christmas  Eve  just  to  stir  up  the 
Bethlehem  mangers  a  little.  You  need  n't  think 
they  are  not  having  a  glorious  time  in  heaven  too 
to-night ;  and  for  my  part,  I  believe  they  send 
us  off  on  account  of  our  being  so  noisy.  But 
Grandpapa  God  lets  us  go  down  into  the  houses 
only  on  condition  that  we  take  away  nothing, 
and  here  you  have  pilfered  this  !  " 

These  weighty  reasons  did  not  seem  to  im- 
press Celinina  as  they  should  have  done,  for 


The  Mule  and  the  Ox.  199 

pressing  the  animals  more  closely  to  her  bosom, 
she  merely  repeated,  — 

"  My  sings,  — 'em  's  my  sings." 

"  Listen,  goosy,"  continued  the  other ;  "  if  you 
don't  do  what  I  tell  you,  you  '11  get  us  all  into 
trouble.  Fly  back  and  leave  them,  for  they  are 
of  the  earth,  and  on  the  earth  they  should  re- 
main. Don't  be  foolish ;  you  can  go  and  be 
back  in  less  than  a  minute.  I  '11  wait  for  you 
on  this  cloud." 

Celinina  was  at  last  convinced  and  started  off 
to  restore  her  theft  to  the  earth. 

XL 

This  is  how  it  came  to  pass  that  Celinina's 
corpse,  that  which  had  been  her  visible  self,  was 
found  the  next  morning  holding  two  little  clay 
animals  instead  of  the  bunch  of  artificial  flowers. 
No  one  could  solve  the  mystery,  not  even  the 
women  who  kept  watch,  nor  the  father,  nor  the 
mother ;  and  the  beautiful  little  girl,  for  whom 
so  many  tears  were  shed,  went  down  into  the 
earth  clasping  the  Mule  and  the  Ox  in  her  cold 
little  hands. 


SOLANGE,   THE   WOLF-GIRL. 

From  the  French  of   MARCEL 
PROVOST. 

LL  that  afternoon  we  had 
walked  through  the  forest, 
stick  in  hand,  our  bags 
slung  over  our  shoulders, 
through  that  magnificent 
forest  of  Tronsays,  which 
covers  one  half  the  St. 

Amand  country,  and  one  half  of  Nevers.  The 
little  village  of  Ursay,  squatting  on  the  bank  of 
the  Cher,  in  the  rent  of  the  valley  which  cuts 
through  the  centre  of  the  forest,  was  our  last 
halting-place  for  the  day.  We  dined  with  an 
old  friend,  the  modest  doctor  of  five  or  six  neigh- 
boring communes  ;  and  after  dinner  we  sat  mus- 
ing on  the  stoop,  with  our  cherry  pipes  between 
our  lips. 

The  shadows  fell  around  us,  over  the  dense 
blue  mass  of  forest  that  encircled  the  horizon 
with  all  the  solemn  slowness  of  night  in  June. 
The  sky  was  streaked  with  flights  of  swallows. 
The  nine  o'clock  Angelus  scattered  its  notes 


202  Christmas  Stories. 

with  intervals  of  silence  from  the  height  of  a 
snuffer-like  steeple  which  emerged  from  among 
the  roofs.  From  distant  farms  came  the  bark- 
ing of  dogs  calling  and  answering  one  another. 

A  woman,  still  young,  in  a  red  woollen  skirt 
and  a  white  linen  shirt,  came  out  of  a  house 
near  by,  and  walked  down  toward  the  river. 
With  her  left  arm  she  pressed  a  baby  against  her 
bosom.  A  little  boy  held  her  other  hand,  and 
gave  his  in  turn  to  a  still  smaller  brother.  When 
they  reached  the  bank  of  the  Cher,  the  young 
woman  sat  upon  a  great  stone  ;  and  while  the 
two  boys,  hastily  undressed,  were  paddling  and 
splashing  about  like  ducks  in  the  stream,  she 
nursed  her  last-born. 

One  of  our  party,  who  was  a  painter,  said, 
"  There  is  a  picture  that  would  be  popular  at 
the  Salon.  How  splendidly  built  and  well-lighted 
that  woman  is  !  And  what  a  pretty  bright  spot 
that  red  skirt  forms  in  the  blue  landscape  !  " 

A  voice  behind  us  called  out,  — 

"  The  girl  you  see  there,'  young  men,  is  So- 
lange,  the  wolf-girl."  And  our  host,  who  had 
been  detained  by  a  consultation,  came  out  to 
join  us.  As  we  asked  him  who  was  this  wolf- 
girl,  and  how  she  had  come  by  so  strange  a  nick- 
name, he  told  us  this  story,  — 

"  This  Solange,  the  wolf-girl,  whose  real  name 
is  Solange  Tournier,  wife  of  Grillet,  was  the  pret- 


Solange,  the   Wolf -girl.  203 

tiest  girl  in  the  whole  Tronsays  country  about 
ten  years  ago.  Now,  of  course,  working  in  the 
fields  as  she  does,  and  having  had  five  children, 
she  looks  hardened  and  worn.  Still,  considering 
her  thirty  years,  she  is  handsome  enough,  as  you 
see.  At  the  time  of  the  adventure  whence  she 
derived  her  strange  nickname  she  was  living  with 
her  parents,  who  were  farmers  of  the  Rein-du- 
Bois,  some  fifteen  kilometres  from  here.  Al- 
though very  poor,  she  was  much  sought  by  all 
the  boys,  even  by  the  well-to-do  ;  but  she  ac- 
cepted the  addresses  of  only  one,  —  a  certain 
Laurent  Grillet,  on  whom  she  had  set  her  heart 
when  she  was  a  wee  bit  of  a  girl,  when  the  two 
kept  the  sheep  together  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Rein-du-Bois. 

"  Laurent  Grillet  was  a  foundling,  who  had 
nothing  in  the  world  but  his  two  arms  for  a  for- 
tune. Solange's  parents  felt  no  inclination  to 
add  poverty  to  poverty,  especially  as  the  girl 
had  so  many  wealthy  suitors. 

"  So  Solange  was  forbidden  to  see  her  friend. 
Naturally,  the  girl  never  failed  at  a  tryst.  Liv- 
ing in  the  same  commune,  with  the  forest  at 
hand,  they  never  lost  an  opportunity  of  meeting 
there.  When  the  father  and  mother  Tournier 
realized  that  scoldings  and  blows  were  of  no 
avail,  they  determined  upon  a  radical  step. 
Solange  was  accordingly  sent  out  to  work  at 


2O4  Christmas  Stories. 

Ursay,  on  the  model  farm  of  M.  Roger  Duflos, 
our  deputy. 

"  Perhaps  you  think  our  two  lovers  ceased  to 
see  each  other.  Not  in  the  least  They  now 
met  at  night ;  they  slept  no  more.  After  night- 
fall they  both  left  the  farms  where  they  were  em- 
ployed and  started  toward  each  other ;  and  then 
they  remained  together  until  nearly  dawn  in  the 
maternal  forest,  the  accomplice  of  their  young 
love. 

"This  was  in  1879.  In  this  manner  the  sum- 
mer and  autumn  went  by.  Then  came  the  win- 
ter, and  a  fierce  winter  it  was.  The  Cher  car- 
ried ice-drifts,  and  finally  froze  from  bank  to 
bank.  The  Tronsays  forests,  covered  with  snow, 
were  bent  like  the  weak  supports  of  an  over- 
laden roof.  The  roads  were  almost  impassable. 
The  forest,  deserted  by  man,  was  gradually  being 
reconquered  by  beasts.  It  was  soon  invaded  by 
wolves,  which  had  neither  been  seen  nor  heard 
of  since  the  Terrible  year. 

"  Yes,  sir,  wolves  !  They  haunted  the  isolated 
farms  around  Lurcy-Le'vy  and  Ursay.  They 
even  ventured  into  the  streets  of  St.  Bonnet  le 
Desert,  —  a  little  village  in  the  heart  of  the  forest 
on  the  banks  of  a  pond.  It  reached  such  a  point 
that  men  were  organized  into  bands  to  beat  the 
woods.  A  reward  of  fifty  francs  was  offered  for 
the  head  of  a  wolf. 


Solange,  the   Wolf -girl.  205 

"  Neither  winter  nor  wolves,  however,  daunted 
Solange  and  Laurent,  or  interfered  with  their 
nocturnal  meetings.  They  continued  their  expe- 
ditions in  the  face  of  a  thousand  dangers.  This 
was  the  dead  season  in  the  fields,  the  time  when 
the  land  lies  fallow.  Every  night  Laurent  left 
Lurcy-Levy,  a  gun  over  his  shoulder,  and  pene- 
trated with  a  lively  step  into  the  black  and  white 
forest.  Solange,  on  the  other  hand,  started  from 
Ursay  at  about  nine  o'clock,  and  they  met  near  a 
glade  some  three  kilometres  from  here,  traversed 
by  a  road,  and  known  as  the  Decouverte. 

"  It  so  happened  that  one  night,  which,  by  the 
way,  was  Christmas  Eve,  Laurent  Grillet,  as  he 
reached  the  rendezvous,  slipped  on  the  hardened 
snow  and  fell,  breaking  his  right  leg  and  sprain- 
ing his  right  wrist.  Solange  tried  to  raise  him, 
but  could  only  drag  him  to  a  great  elm,  against 
which  she  propped  him,  after  wrapping  him  in 
her  own  cloak. 

"'Wait  for  me  here,  my  poor  Laurent,'  said 
she  ;  '  I  will  run  to  Ursay  for  the  doctor,  and  get 
him  to  come  for  you  in  his  carryall.' 

"  She  started  off,  but  had  not  reached  the  first 
turn  in  the  road  when  she  heard  a  report  and 
the  cry,  '  Help  ! ' 

"  She  ran  back  and  found  her  friend  in  an 
agony  of  pain  and  fear,  his  trembling  hand  on 


206  Christmas  Stories. 

the  gun  which  lay  beside  him.  She  said, '  What 
is  it,  Laurent  ?  Was  it  you  who  fired  ?  ' 

"  He  answered,  *  It  was  I.  I  saw  a  beast  about 
the  size  of  a  large  dog,  and  with  great  red  eyes. 
I  believe,  on  my  word,  it  was  a  wolf.' 

"  '  Was  it  at  him  you  fired  ? ' 

"  '  No.  I  cannot  lift  my  gun  on  account  of 
my  arm.  I  fired  on  the  ground  to  scare  him. 
He  has  gone  now.' 

"  Solange  reflected  for  a  moment.  '  Will  he 
come  back  ? ' 

" '  I  am  afraid  he  will,'  answered  the  lad. 
'  Solange,  you  will  have  to  stay,  or  that  beast  will 
eat  me.' 

"  '  Well,'  she  said,  '  I  will  stay.  Let  me  have 
the  gun.' 

"  She  took  it,  put  in  a  fresh  cartridge,  and 
they  both  waited. 

"  An  hour  passed.  The  moon,  as  yet  invisible, 
had  risen,  however,  above  the  horizon,  for  the 
zenith  reflected  a  confused  light,  which  was 
gradually  growing  more  intense.  Laurent  felt 
the  fever  coming  upon  him.  He  shivered  and 
moaned.  Solange,  half  frozen,  as  she  stood 
leaning  against  the  tree,  was  beginning  to  feel 
drowsy.  Suddenly  a  bark  —  a  sort  of  howl  like 
that  of  a  dog  at  night  when  it  is  tied  —  made  her 
start.  In  the  faint  light  she  saw  two  red  eyes 
fixed  upon  her.  It  was  the  wolf.  Laurent  tried 


Solange,  the   Wolf-girl.  207 

to  rise  and  take  his  gun,  but  the  pain  flung  him 
back  with  a  cry. 

"  '  Load,  Solange,'  said  he.  '  Do  not  fire  too 
soon,  and  aim  between  the  eyes.' 

"  She  shouldered,  aimed,  and  fired,  but  the 
gun  recoiled  and  missed  aim.  The  beast  was  un- 
touched. It  ran  off  a  short  way  down  the  road. 
Then  it  was  heard  howling  at  a  distance,  and 
other  howls  came  in  answer. 

"  The  moon  was  climbing  the  sky.  It  sud- 
denly passed  the  dark  mass  of  the  thickets  and 
flooded  the  entire  forest  as  the  footlights  illumine 
the  scenery  on  the  stage.  Then  Solange  and 
Laurent  saw  this  horrible  sight :  at  a  few  feet 
from  them  five  wolves  were  seated  on  their 
haunches,  drawn  in  line  across  the  road,  while 
another,  bolder  than  the  rest,  was  walking  slowly 
toward  them. 

"  '  Listen,'  said  Laurent.  '  Aim  at  that  one 
that  is  coming.  If  you  bring  him  down,  the 
others  will  eat  him,  and  they  will  leave  us  in 
peace  in  the  mean  time.' 

"  The  wolf  continued  to  advance  with  short, 
cautious  steps.  They  could  now  see  his  blood- 
shot eyeballs  distinctly,  the  protruding  rings  of 
his  spine,  the  sharp  bones  of  his  carcass,  his  dull 
hair  and  his  open  jaw,  with  the  long  tongue 
hanging  out.  '  Hold  the  butt-end  well  in  the 
hollow  of  your  shoulder.  Now  fire.' 


208  Christmas  Stories, 

"  There  was  a  report ;  the  beast  leaped  to  one 
side  and  fell  dead  without  a  groan.  The  whole 
band  galloped  off  and  disappeared  in  the  copse. 

"  '  Run,  Solange  ! '  cried  Laurent ;  '  drag  him 
as  far  as  you  can  along  the  road.  There  is  no 
danger ;  the  others  will  not  come  back  for  a 
while  yet.' 

"  She  had  started,  when  he  called  her  back. 
'  It  might  be  just  as  well  to  cut  off  that  beast's 
head  on  account  of  the  reward.' 

" '  Have  you  a  knife  ? '  asked  Solange. 

"'  Yes  ;  in  my  belt.' 

"  It  was  a  short-handled,  broad-bladed  hun- 
ter's knife.  She  took  it  and  ran  to  the  dead 
wolf.  She  made  a  great  effort  and  drove  it  in  his 
throat,  the  warm  blood  trickling  down  her  hands 
and  along  her  skirt ;  she  turned  her  knife  around, 
cut  deep,  then  hacked,  and  finally  severed  the 
head  from  the  trunk,  which  she  dragged  by  one 
leg  over  the  slippery  snow  as  far  as  she  could. 
Then  she  returned  to  her  lover  with  the  bloody, 
bristly  head  of  the  beast  in  her  hand. 

"  What  Laurent  had  foreseen  occurred.  The 
wolves,  at  first  frightened  by  the  death  of  their 
leader,  were  soon  brought  back  by  the  smell  of 
the  blood.  In  the  white  light  of  the  moon,  re- 
flected by  the  snow  like  the  fantastic  light  of  a 
fairy  scene,  the  two  young  people  saw  the  group 
of  lean,  ravenous  beasts  rubbing  their  backs 


Solange,  the   Wo  If -girl.  209 

against  one  another,  crowding  around  the  fresh 
prey,  tearing  it  limb  from  limb,  growling  and 
snarling  over  it,  wrenching  off  the  flesh,  until 
nothing  was  left  of  it,  not  even  a  tuft  of  hair. 

"  Meanwhile  the  boy  was  suffering  greatly  from 
his  injuries.  Solange,  whose  nerves  were  begin- 
ning to  relax,  struggled  vainly  against  exhaustion 
and  sleep.  Twice  her  gun  fell  from  her  hands. 
The  wolves,  having  finished  their  meal,  began  to 
draw  nearer.  The  girl  fired  twice  in  the  lot,  but 
her  benumbed  fingers  trembled  and  she  missed 
her  aim.  At  each  report  the  band  turned  tail, 
trotted  about  a  hundred  metres  down  the  road, 
waited  a  moment  and  came  back. 

"  Then  the  two  poor  children  were  convinced 
that  it  was  all  over  with  them,  and  that  they 
must  die.  Solange  dropped  her  gun.  It  never 
once  occurred  to  her  that  she  might  save  her- 
self. She  threw  herself  down  beside  her  lover, 
clasped  her  arms  around  him,  laid  her  cheek 
against  his,  and  there  under  the  same  cloak 
they  awaited  death,  half  frozen  with  the  cold, 
half  burning  with  fever.  Their  confused  brains 
conjured  strange  visions.  Now  they  thought 
they  had  gone  back  to  the  balmy  nights  of  June 
when  the  forest,  clad  in  deep  green,  sheltered 
their  peaceful  meetings,  then  suddenly  the  wood 
was  bare,  lighted  with  a  weird  snowy  light, 
peopled  with  shifting  forms,  eyes  like  burning 
14 


2io  Christmas  Stories. 

embers,  great  open  jaws  that  multiplied,  and 
came  nearer,  ever  nearer. 

"  But  neither  Solange  nor  Laurent  was  destined 
to  die  so  horrible  a  death.  Providence  —  yes, 
young  men,  I  believe  in  a  Providence  —  had 
decreed  that  I,  on  that  Christmas  morning, 
should  find  myself  on  that  particular  road  on 
my  way  home  in  my  carryall  from  St.  Bonnet 
le  De'sert.  I  managed  the  lines ;  my  man  held 
the  gun  and  inspected  the  road.  No  doubt  our 
sleigh-bells  frightened  asvay  the  wolves,  for  we 
saw  none.  As  we  drove  near  the  elm  at  the 
foot  of  which  the  lovers  lay,  my  mare  shied,  and 
so  drew  our  attention  to  them.  I  jumped  down 
from  the  seat.  My  man  and  I  settled  them  in 
the  carryall  as  best  as  we  could,  covering  them 
with  what  wraps  we  had  along.  They  were  un- 
conscious and  almost  frozen.  We  took  the 
bloody  head  of  the  wolf  with  us  too. 

"  It  was  about  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning 
when  we  reached  Ursay.  The  day  was  break- 
ing over  a  landscape  of  spun  glass  and  white 
velvet.  M.  Roger  Buffos'  farmers  and  at 
least  one  half  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  borough, 
having  heard  of  Solange's  disappearance,  came 
out  to  meet  us ;  and  in  the  very  kitchen  where 
we  dined  this  evening,  in  front  of  a  great  fire  of 
crackling  heather,  Laurent  and  his  friend  warmed 
themselves  and  told  us  the  story  of  their  terrible 
Christmas." 


Solange,  the    Wolf -girl.  211 

One  of  us  said, — 

"And  what  followed,  Doctor?  Did  they 
marry  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  they  were  married,"  answered  our  host. 
"  The  will  of  Providence  is  sometimes  so  plainly 
indicated  by  events  that  the  most  obtuse  cannot 
fail  to  perceive  it.  After  the  adventure  with  the 
wolves,  Solange's  parents  consented  to  her  mar- 
riage with  Laurent  Grillet.  The  marriage  took 
place  in  the  spring.  The  reward  of  fifty  francs 
for  the  wolfs  head  paid  for  the  wedding  dress." 

The  doctor  was  silent.  Night  was  full  upon 
us.  The  sky,  of  a  turquoise  blue,  reflected  its 
first  stars  in  the  river.  The  mass  of  forest,  dense 
and  inky,  shut  off  the  horizon.  We  saw  Solange, 
the  wolf-girl,  dress  her  two  boys  and  start  home- 
ward with  them,  the  youngest  asleep  on  her 
shoulder.  She  passed  very  near  us,  and  looking 
up,  smiled  at  the  doctor.  The  doctor  said,  — 

"  Good-night,  Solange  !  " 


SALVETTE   AND    BERNADOU. 


From  the  French  of  ALPHONSE  DAUDET. 

I. 

T  was  Christmas  Eve  in  a 
great  Bavarian  town.  A 
joyous  crowd  pushed  its 
way  through  the  streets 
white  with  snow,  in  the 
confusion  of  the  fog,  the 
rumble  of  carriages,  and 
the  clamor  of  bells,  to- 
ward the  booths,  stalls, 

and  cook-shops  in  the  open  air.  Great  fir-trees 
bedecked  with  dangling  gewgaws  were  being 
carried  about,  grazing  the  ribbons  and  flowers  of 
the  booths  and  towering  above  the  crowd  like 
shadows  of  Thuringian  forests,  —  a  breath  of 
Nature  in  the  artificial  life  of  winter. 

It  is  twilight.  The  lingering  lights  of  sunset, 
sending  a  crimson  glow  through  the  fog,  can  still 
be  seen  from  the  gardens  beyond  the  Residence  ; 
and  in  the  town  the  very  air  is  so  full  of  anima- 
tion and  festivity  that  every  light  which  blinks 
through  a  window-pane  seems  to  be  dangling 


214  Christmas  Stories. 

from  a  Christmas-tree.  For  this  is  not  an  or- 
dinary Christmas.  It  is  the  year  of  our  Lord 
1870  ;  and  the  birth  of  Christ  is  but  an  additional 
pretext  for  drinking  the  health  of  the  illustrious 
Von  der  Than,  and  celebrating  the  triumph  of 
Bavarian  warriors.  Christmas  !  Christmas  !  The 
Jews  of  the  lower  town  themselves  have  joined 
in  the  general  merriment.  Here  comes  old 
Augustus  Cahn,  hurrying  around  the  corner  of 
"The  Bunch  of  Blue  Grapes."  There  is  an  un- 
usual light  in  his  ferret  eyes.  His  little  bushy 
pigtail  was  never  known  to  wriggle  so  merrily. 
Over  his  sleeve,  worn  shiny  by  the  rope  handles 
of  his  wallet,  he  carries  an  honest  basket,  quite 
full,  covered  with  a  brown  linen  napkin,  from 
under  which  peep  the  neck  of  a  bottle  and  a 
twig  of  holly. 

What  the  deuce  is  the  old  usurer  up  to? 
Can  he  too  be  celebrating  Christmas?  Has  he 
assembled  his  friends  and  family  to  drink  to  the 
Vaterland  ?  Impossible.  Everybody  knows  that 
old  Cahn  has  no  Fatherland  but  his  money-safe. 
Neither  has  he  relatives  nor  friends  ;  he  has  only 
creditors.  His  sons,  or  rather  his  partners,  have 
been  away  for  three  months  with  the  army. 
They  are  trading  yonder  behind  the  luggage- 
vans  of  the  landwehr,  selling  brandy,  buying 
clocks,  ripping  the  knapsacks  fallen  by  the  way- 
side, and  searching  the  pockets  of  the  dead  at 


Salvette  and  Bernadou.  215 

night  on  the  battle-field.  Father  Cahn,  too  old 
to  follow  his  children,  has  remained  in  Bavaria, 
where  he  is  doing  a  flourishing  business  with  the 
French  prisoners.  He  hovers  about  the  quar- 
ters, loans  money  on  watches,  buys  epaulets, 
medals,  and  money-orders.  He  ferrets  his  way 
through  hospitals  and  ambulances,  and  creeps 
noiselessly  to  the  bedside  of  the  wounded,  in- 
quiring in  his  hideous  jargon,  — 

"  Aff  you  zumting  to  zell?  " 

And  now  he  is  trotting  along  hurriedly  with 
his  basket  on  his  arm,  because  the  military  hos- 
pital closes  at  five,  and  because  two  Frenchmen 
are  waiting  for  him  there,  in  that  great  gloomy 
building  behind  the  iron  grating  of  narrow  win- 
dows, where  Christmas  finds  nothing  to  cheer  its 
vigil  but  the  pale  lamps  that  burn  at  the  bedside 
of  the  dying. 

II. 

These  two  Frenchmen  are  Salvette  and  Berna- 
dou, two  light-infantry  men,  two  Provencals  from 
the  same  village,  enlisted  in  the  same  battalion 
and  wounded  by  the  same  shell.  But  Salvette 
has  proved  the  hardier  of  the  two  ;  he  is  able 
now  to  get  up  and  to  take  a  few  steps  from  his  bed 
to  the  window.  Bernadou.  on  the  other  hand, 
has  no  desire  to  recover.  Behind  the  faded 


216  Christmas  Stories. 

curtains  of  his  hospital  bed,  he  languishes  and 
grows  thinner  day  by  day  ;  and  when  he  speaks 
of  his  home,  he  smiles  that  sad  smile  of  invalids 
which  contains  more  resignation  than  hope. 
He  seems  a  little  brighter  to-day,  however,  as 
he  recalls  the  celebration  of  Christmas,  which 
in  our  beautiful  land  of  Provence  is  like  a  bon- 
fire lighted  in  the  heart  of  winter.  He  thinks 
of  the  walk  home  after  midnight  Mass,  of  the 
bedecked  and  luminous  churches,  the  dark  and 
crowded  village  streets,  then  the  long  evening 
around  the  table,  the  three  traditional  torches, 
the  aioli,  the  dish  of  snails,  the  pretty  ceremony 
of  the  cachofio,  — the  Yule  log,  which  the  grand- 
father parades  through  the  house  and  sprinkles 
with  mulled  wine. 

"  Ah,  my  poor  Salvette,  what  a  dreary  Christ- 
mas this  will  be  !  If  we  only  had  a  few  cents 
left,  we  could  buy  a  little  loaf  of  white  bread  and 
a  bottle  of  light  wine.  It  would  be  nice  to  sprin- 
kle the  Yule  log  with  you  once  more  before  — 
And  his  sunken  eyes  shine  when  he  thinks 
of  the  wine  and  the  white  bread.  But  what  is 
to  be  done?  They  have  nothing  left,  the  poor 
wretches,  —  no  watches,  no  money.  True, 
Salvette  has  a  money-order  for  forty  francs 
stored  away  in  the  lining  of  his  vest.  But  that 
must  be  kept  in  reserve  for  the  day  of  their  re- 
lease, or  rather  for  the  first  halt  at  a  French 


Salvette  and  Bernadou.  217 

inn.  It  is  sacred  money,  and  cannot  be  touched. 
Still,  poor  Bernadou  is  so  low,  who  can  tell 
whether  he  will  ever  live  through  the  journey 
home?  And  while  it  is  still  time,  might  it  not 
be  better  to  celebrate  this  Christmas  together? 
Without  saying  a  word  of  it  to  his  comrade, 
Salvette  rips  his  vest  lining  ;  and  after  a  long 
struggle  and  a  whispered  discussion  with  Au- 
gustus Cahn,  he  slips  into  his  hand  this  little 
scrap  of  stiff  yellow  paper  smelling  of  powder 
and  stained  with  blood,  after  which  he  assumes 
a  look  of  deep  mystery.  He  rubs  his  hands 
and  laughs  softly  to  himself  as  he  glances  over 
at  Bernadou.  As  the  darkness  falls,  he  stands 
with  his  forehead  against  the  window-pane,  and 
stirs  from  his  post  only  when  he  sees  old  Augus- 
tus Cahn  turn  the  corner  breathlessly,  with  a 
little  basket  on  his  arm. 


III. 

The  solemn  midnight,  ringing  from  all  the 
steeples  of  the  great  city,  falls  lugubriously  on 
the  insomnia  of  the  wounded.  The  hospital  is 
silent,  lighted  only  by  the  night  lamps  that 
swing  from  the  ceiling.  Gaunt  shadows  float 
over  the  beds  and  the  bare  walls  with  a  per- 
petual swaying,  which  seems  like  the  oppressed 
breathing  of  the  people  lying  there.  Every  now 


218  Christmas  Stories. 

and  then  there  are  dreams  which  talk  aloud,  or 
nightmares  that  moan  ;  while  vague  murmurs  of 
steps  and  voices,  blended  in  the  sonorous  chill 
of  the  night,  rise  from  the  street  like  sounds  is- 
suing from  the  portals  of  a  cathedral.  They  are 
fraught  with  impressions  of  pious  haste,  —  the 
mystery  of  a  religious  festival  invading  the  hours 
of  sleep  and  filling  the  darkness  of  the  city  with 
the  soft  glow  of  lanterns  and  the  jewelled  radi- 
ance of  church  windows. 

"  Are  you  asleep,  Bernadou  ?  " 

On  the  little  table  by  his  friend's  bed  Salvette 
has  laid  a  bottle  of  Lunel  wine  and  a  pretty 
round  Christmas  loaf  with  a  twig  of  holly  stuck 
in  the  top.  The  wounded  man  opens  his  eyes, 
dark  and  sunken  with  fever.  In  the  uncertain 
light  of  the  night  lamps  and  the  reflection  of  the 
long  roofs,  where  the  moon  dazzles  herself  in  the 
snow,  this  improvised  Christmas  supper  strikes 
him  as  something  fantastic. 

"  Come,  wake  up,  countryman  ;  let  it  not  be 
said  that  two  Provencals  let  Christmas  go  by 
without  sprinkling  it  with  a  draught  of  wine  —  " 
And  Salvette  raises  him  on  his  pillows  with  a 
mother's  tenderness.  He  fills  the  glasses,  cuts 
the  bread.  They  drink  and  speak  of  Provence. 
Bernadou  seems  to  be  cheered  by  the  reminis- 
cences and  the  white  wine.  With  that  childish- 
ness which  invalids  seem  to  find  again  in  the 


Salvette  and  Bernadou.  219 

depths  of  their  weakness  he  begs  for  a  Provencal 
carol.  His  comrade  is  only  too  happy, 

"  What  shall  it  be,  — '  The  Host '  or  '  The 
Three  Kings  '  or  '  Saint  Joseph  told  me  '  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  prefer  ( The  Shepherds.'  That  is  the 
one  we  used  to  sing  at  home/' 

"  Very  well,  then.  Here  goes,  '  The  Shep- 
herds.' " 

And  in  a  low  voice,  with  his  head  under  the 
bed-curtains,  Salvette  begins  to  sing.  At  the 
last  verse,  when  the  shepherds  have  laid  down 
their  offering  of  fresh  eggs  and  cheeses,  and 
Saint  Joseph  speeds  them  with  kind  words,  — 

"  Shepherds. 
Take  your  leave,"  — 

poor  Bernadou  slips  back  and  falls  heavily  on 
his  pillow. 

His  comrade,  who  believes  that  he  has  gone 
to  sleep  again,  shakes  him  by  the  arm  and  calls 
him  ;  but  the  wounded  man  remains  motionless, 
and  the  twig  of  holly  lying  beside  him  looks  like 
the  green  palm  that  is  laid  on  the  couch  of  the 
dead.  Salvette  has  understood ;  he  is  slightly 
tipsy  with  the  celebration  and  the  shock  of  his 
sorrow ;  and  with  a  voice  full  of  tears  he  sings 
out,  filling  the  silent  dormitory  with  the  joyous 
refrain  of  Provence,  — 

"  Shepherds, 
Take  your  leave." 


MAESE   PEREZ,   THE    ORGANIST. 

From  the  Spanish  of  GUSTAVO  ADOLFO  BECQUER. 
I. 

O  you  see  the  one  with 
the  scarlet  cloak  and  the 
white  plume  in  his  hat, 
—  the  one  whose  jer- 
kin seems  to  glitter  with 
all  the  gold  of  the  In- 
dian galleys?  He  is 
stepping  from  his  litter  ; 
he  gives  his  hand  to 
that  lady,  see  her  !  She  is  coming  this  way  now, 
preceded  by  four  pages  bearing  torches.  Well, 
that  is  the  Marquis  of  Moscoso,  the  lover  of  the 
widowed  Countess  of  Villapineda.  They  say 
that  before  he  thought  of  paying  his  addresses 
to  her  he  had  sought  the  hand  of  an  opulent 
gentleman's  daughter.  But  the  lady's  father, 
whom  people  say  is  something  of  a  miser  —  but 
hush !  speaking  of  the  Devil.  Do  you  see  that 
man  coming  through  the  arch  of  San  Felipe,  on 
foot,  muffled  in  a  dark  cloak,  and  accompanied 


222  Christmas  Stories. 

by  a  single  servant  carrying  a  lantern  ?  Now  he 
is  in  front  of  the  street  shrine. 

"  As  he  unmuffled  to  bow  before  the  image, 
did  you  notice  the  decoration  that  shone  on  his 
breast?  But  for  that  noble  insignia  any  one 
would  mistake  him  for  a  shopkeeper  of  the 
street  of  the  Culebras.  Well,  that  is  the  father 
in  question.  See  how  the  people  make  way  for 
him  and  greet  him  as  he  goes  by ! 

"  Everybody  knows  him  in  Seville  on  account 
of  his  great  fortune.  Why,  he  has  more  ducats 
in  his  coffers  than  there  are  soldiers  in  King 
Philip's  armies  ;  and  his  galleys  would  form  a 
fleet  mighty  enough  to  oppose  the  Sultan  him- 
self. Look,  look  at  that  stately  group  of  men  ! 
They  are  the  Twenty-four,  the  gentlemen  of  the 
Aldermanry.  Aha  !  and  we  have  the  great  Flem- 
ing among  us  too  !  They  say  that  the  gentle- 
men of  the  green  cross  have  not  challenged  him, 
thanks  to  his  influence  among  the  magnates  of 
Madrid.  He  only  comes  to  church  to  hear  the 
music ;  and  if  Maese  Perez  does  not  bring 
tears  as  big  as  one's  fist  to  his  eyes,  it  will  no 
doubt  be  because  his  soul,  instead  of  being 
where  it  belongs,  is  frying  somewhere  in  the 
Devil's  caldron. 

"  Ah,  neighbor,  but  this  looks  bad.  I  greatly 
fear  there  is  going  to  be  trouble.  I  shall  take 
refuge  in  the  church,  for  I  judge  there  will  be 


Maese  Perez,  the  Organist.  223 

more  broadswords  than  Pater-nosters  in  the  air. 
Look,  look  !  the  Duke  of  Alcala's  people  have 
turned  the  corner  of  the  Plaza  San  Pedro,  and 
I  fancy  I  see  the  Duke  of  Medina-Sidonia's  men 
emerging  from  the  Alley  of  the  Duenas.  What 
did  I  tell  you  ?  They  have  caught  sight  of  one 
another  ;  they  stop  ;  the  groups  are  breaking  up  ; 
and  the  minstrels,  who  on  these  occasions  are 
generally  beaten  by  friends  and  foes  alike,  are 
running ;  the  officer  of  justice  himself,  with  the 
emblem  of  authority  and  all,  has  taken  refuge 
under  the  portico,  —  and  then  people  speak  of 
justice  !  Justice  !  yes,  —  for  the  poor, 

"  Come  !  the  shields  are  beginning  to  glitter. 
Lord  of  the  great  power,  assist  us  !  The  blows 
are  falling  thick  and  fast.  Neighbor,  neighbor, 
this  way  before  they  close  the  doors !  But  wait, 
what  do  I  see?  They  have  left  off  before  they 
had  really  begun.  What  is  that  light  ?  A  litter, 
torches  !  It  is  the  bishop,  on  my  soul ! 

"  Our  Most  Holy  Lady  of  Protection,  whom  I 
was  just  invoking  inwardly,  has  sent  him  to  our 
rescue.  Ah,  nobody  will  ever  know  what  the 
great  lady  has  done  for  me !  With  what  inter- 
est am  I  repaid-  for  the  tapers  that  I  burn  before 
her  every  Saturday ! 

"See  him ;  how  handsome  he  is  in  his  purple 
robes  and  his  scarlet  cap !  God  keep  him  in 
his  episcopal  chair  as  many  centuries  as  I  would 


224  Christmas  Stories. 

like  to  live  myself !  Were  it  not  for  him,  half 
Seville  would  be  ablaze  with  these  dissensions 
of  the  dukes.  Look  at  them,  the  great  hypo- 
crites ;  see  how  they  all  press  around  the  prel- 
ate's litter  to  kiss  his  ring.  They  all  accompany 
him,  confounding  themselves  with  his  servants. 
Who  would  believe  that  those  two,  who  seem  so 
friendly  in  his  presence,  would  if  they  came 
together  in  a  half-hour  from  now  in  some  dark 
street,  —  that  is  —  who  knows  ?  I  would  not 
accuse  them  of  cowardice  ;  God  forbid  !  They 
have  given  proof  of  their  valor  by  fighting  the 
enemies  of  the  Lord.  Still,  to  speak  the  truth,  it 
seems  to  me  that  if  they  started  out  really  deter- 
mined to  settle  their  differences,  —  you  under- 
stand me,  really  determined,  —  it  would  be  no 
difficult  matter,  and  they  would  thus  put  an  end 
to  these  continuous  quarrels  where  the  only  ones 
that  give  and  take  the  blows  are  their  kinsmen, 
their  allies,  and  their  servants. 

"  But  come,  neighbor,  come  into  the  church 
before  the  crowd  fills  it  from  end  to  end ;  for 
on  nights  like  this  it  is  sometimes  packed  so  full 
that  you  could  not  squeeze  in  a  grain  of  wheat. 
The  nuns  have  a  prize  in  their  organist.  When 
was  the  convent  ever  as  favored  as  it  is  now? 
Other  sisterhoods  have  made  Maese  Perez  mag- 
nificent offers, — which  is  not  at  all  to  be  won- 
dered at,  for  the  archbishop  himself  offered  him 


Maese  Perez,  the  Organist.  225 

mountains  of  gold  if  he  would  go  to  the  cathe- 
dral. But  it  was  all  of  no  use.  He  would 
sooner  give  up  his  life  than  his  beloved  organ. 
Do  you  not  know  Maese  Perez?  To  be  sure, 
you  have  not  been  long  in  the  neighborhood. 
Well,  he  is  a  saintly  man,  poor,  no  doubt,  but  a 
man  who  never  wearies  of  giving.  With  no 
relative  but  his  daughter,  and  no  friend  but  his 
organ,  he  spends  his  life  caring  for  the  one  and 
repairing  the  other. 

"  And  the  organ  is  an  old  one,  let  me  tell  you  ; 
but  that  makes  no  difference  to  him.  He  takes 
such  pains  with  it  and  keeps  it  in  such  good 
order  that  its  tone  is  a  perfect  wonder.  He 
knows  it  so  well  that  he  can  tell  merely  by  the 
touch  —  I  do  not  know  whether  I  told  you  that 
the  poor  man  was  born  blind.  And  how  pa- 
tiently he  bears  his  misfortune  !  When  any- 
body asks  him  how  much  he  would  give  to  be 
able  to  see,  he  answers,  '  A  great  deal,  but  not 
as  much  as  you  think,  for  I  have  hope.' 
'  Hope  of  seeing?  '  '  Yes,  and  very  soon  too,' 
he  adds,  smiling  like  an  angel.  '  I  am  seventy- 
six  years  old,  and  however  long  the  life  allotted 
to  me,  I  must  soon  see  God.'  Poor  man  !  yes, 
he  will  see  God,  for  he  is  as  humble  as  the 
stones  of  the  street,  that  allow  everybody  to 
tread  upon  them.  He  always  says  that  he  is 
nothing  but  a  poor  convent  organist,  while  he 
15 


226  Christmas  Stories. 

might  teach  solfeggio  to  the  chapel  master  of 
the  cathedral  himself.  Of  course  he  could  ;  he 
cut  his  teeth  in  the  trade.  His  father  before 
him  had  the  same  position.  I  did  not  know 
him,  but  my  mother  —  may  she  rest  in  glory ! 
—  used  to  say  that  he  always  brought  the  child 
with  him  to  pump  the  organ.  Later  on,  the 
boy  showed  great  talent ;  and  when  his  father 
died,  he  naturally  enough  fell  heir  to  his  posi- 
tion. And  what  hands  he  has,  God  bless  them  ! 
They  are  worthy  of  being  taken  to  Chicarreros 
Street  to  be  set  in  pure  gold.  He  always  plays 
well,  always  ;  but,  my  dear,  on  a  night  like  this  he 
is  a  perfect  wonder.  He  professes  the  greatest 
devotion  to  this  ceremony  of  midnight  Mass, 
and  at  the  elevation  of  the  Sacred  Form,  pre- 
cisely at  twelve  o'clock,  which  is  the  time  when 
our  Lord  came  into  the  world,  the  voices  of  his 
organ  are  the  real  voices  of  angels. 

"  But  what  is  the  use  of  telling  you  about  what 
you  will  hear  for  yourself  in  a  few  moments? 
Just  notice  the  people  who  are  here  to-night,  and 
you  will  form  some  idea  of  what  he  is.  Here 
is  all  the  elegance  of  Seville,  and  the  arch- 
bishop himself,  —  all  come  to  this  humble  con- 
vent to  hear  him  play.  It  is  not  only  the  learned 
people,  those  who  know  music,  who  understand 
his  merit ;  not  so,  —  the  very  rabble  appreciate 
him.  This  great  crowd  that  you  see  coming 


Maese  Perez,  the  Organist.  227 

this  way  with  torches,  singing  carols  with  all  the 
might  of  their  lungs  to  the  accompaniment  of 
their  tambourines  and  drums,  —  they  are  the  kind 
of  people  to  create  a  disturbance  in  a  church  ; 
but  just  wait,  they  will  be  as  still  as  the  dead 
when  Maese  Pe"rez  lays  his  hands  on  the  organ. 
At  the  elevation  of  the  Host,  not  a  fly  makes 
itself  heard.  There  are  great  tears  in  every 
eye  ;  and  when  the  music  stops,  you  hear  some- 
thing like  a  deep  sigh,  which  proves  that  the 
people  have  been  holding  their  breath  in  ecstasy 
all  the  while.  But  come,  come  !  the  bells  have 
stopped  ringing ;  and  Mass  will  soon  begin. 
Let  us  go  in.  This  is  the  good  night  of  the 
world,  but  for  none  will  it  be  a  better  night  than 
for  us." 

And  saying  this,  the  good  woman,  who  had 
acted  as  her  neighbor's  cicerone,  pressed  through 
the  portico  of  the  convent  of  Santa  Ine"s,  and 
elbowing  here,  pushing  there,  made  her  way  into 
the  interior  of  the  temple,  there  losing  herself  in 
the  surging  crowd. 

II. 

The  church  was  profusely  illumined.  The 
torrent  of  light  which  fell  from  the  altars  and 
filled  the  edifice  sparkled  on  the  rich  jewels  of 
the  great  ladies,  who,  kneeling  on  the  velvet 


228  Christmas  Stones. 

cushions  which  their  pages  laid  at  their  feet,  and 
taking  their  missals  from  the  hands  of  their 
duennas,  formed  a  brilliant  circle  around  the 
chancel  grating.  Behind  them,  in  bright  gold- 
embroidered  cloaks  thrown  back  with  studied 
carelessness  in  order  to  display  glittering  orders 
of  green  and  red,  their  broad-brimmed  felts  in 
one  hand,  the  plumes  sweeping  the  floor,  the  left 
hand  resting  on  the  polished  hilts  of  their  rapiers 
or  caressing  the  pommel  of  their  chiselled  dag- 
gers, stood  the  Twenty -four,  who  with  a  great 
part  of  the  best  nobility  of  Seville  seemed  to 
form  a  wall  around  their  wives  and  daughters  to 
protect  them  from  the  contact  of  the  populace. 
The  latter,  moving  about  in  the  rear  of  the  nave 
with  a  murmur  like  that  of  a  stormy  sea,  burst 
into  a  jubilant  acclamation,  accompanied  by  the 
discord  of  timbrels  and  tambourines,  at  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  bishop.  The  prelate,  surrounded 
by  his  attendants,  took  his  seat  under  a  crimson 
canopy,  beside  the  high  altar,  and  blessed  the 
people  three  times. 

It  was  time  for  Mass  to  begin.  Several  min- 
utes elapsed,  however,  and  the  celebrant  did 
not  appear.  The  crowd  began  to  show  evi- 
dences of  impatience ;  the  knights  exchanged 
whispers  among  themselves  ;  and  the  bishop  sent 
one  of  his  attendants  to  the  sacristy  to  inquire 
into  the  cause  of  the  delay. 


Maese  Perez,  the  Organist.  229 

"  Maese  Pe'rez  has  been  taken  ill,  very  ill ; 
and  it  will  be  impossible  for  him  to  attend  Mass 
to-night." 

This  was  the  word  that  the  attendant  brought 
back. 

The  news  spread  through  the  church  in  an 
instant.  It  produced  a  most  unpleasant  effect. 
The  noise  was  such  in  the  temple  that  the  chief 
officer  of  justice  rose  to  his  feet,  and  the  con- 
stables entered  the  church  to  enforce  silence. 

At  that  moment  an  ill-looking  man,  ungainly, 
bony,  and  cross-eyed  to  boot,  stepped  up  to  the 
place  where  the  prelate  sat. 

"Maese  Perez  is  ill,"  said  he;  "the  cere- 
mony cannot  begin.  If  you  see  fit,  I  will  play 
the  organ  in  his  absence,  for  Maese  Pe'rez  is  not 
the  greatest  organist  in  the  world,  nor  will  the 
instrument  fall  into  disuse  after  his  death  for 
the  lack  of  a  musician  to  take  his  place." 

The  archbishop  made  a  movement  of  assent ; 
and  already  some  of  the  faithful,  who  knew  this 
individual  to  be  an  envious  rival  of  the  organ- 
ist of  Santa  Ines,  were  breaking  into  exclama- 
tions of  disgust  when  suddenly  a  great  noise 
was  heard  in  the  portico. 

"  Maese  Pe'rez  is  here !  Maese  Pe'rez  is 
here  !  " 

All  heads  were  turned  toward  the  crowded 
doorways  from  which  these  shouts  came. 


230  Christmas  Stories. 

In  truth,  Maese  P6rez,  pale  and  disfigured,  was 
entering  the  church,  carried  in  an  armchair,  which 
everybody  claimed  the  honor  of  bearing  upon 
his  shoulders.  Neither  the  doctor's  commands 
nor  his  daughter's  tears  had  been  able  to  keep 
him  in  bed. 

"No,"  he  had  said;  "this  is  the  last  —  the 
last — I  know  it.  I  will  not  die  without  hear- 
ing the  voice  of  my  organ  again,  on  this  solemn 
night,  this  good-night.  Come,  I  implore,  I  com- 
mand you,  let  us  go  to  the  church  ! " 

His  desire  was  gratified,  The  people  carried 
him  in  their  arms  to  the  organ-loft.  Mass 
began. 

The  cathedral  clock  struck  twelve.  After  the 
introit  came  the  Gospel,  the  offertory,  then  the 
solemn  moment  when  the  priest,  after  having 
consecrated  the  bread,  takes  the  Sacred  Form 
between  his  fingers  and  begins  to  elevate  it. 
A  cloud  of  incense  in  bluish  waves  floated 
through  the  church.  The  little  altar-bells  began 
to  ring  in  vibrating  peals,  and  Maese  Perez  laid 
his  aged  fingers  upon  the  keys  of  the  organ. 

The  multitudinous  voices  of  its  metal  pipes  re- 
sounded in  a  prolonged  and  majestic  chord, 
which  grew  gradually  fainter,  as  though  the 
breath  of  the  wind  had  borne  away  its  last 
echoes. 

The  first   chord,  which   seemed  like  a  voice 


Maese  Perez,  the  Organist.  231 

from  the  earth  calling  out  to  heaven,  was  an- 
swered by  another,  that  seemed  to  come  from  a 
great  distance,  soft  at  first,  then  swelling  until  it 
became  a  torrent  of  thundering  harmony. 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  angels,  which  had 
traversed  space  and  reached  the  earth. 

Then  followed  what  seemed  like  canticles 
sung  far  away  by  the  hierarchies  of  seraphim, 
a  thousand  hymns  at  once  blending  into  one, 
which  itself  was  no  more  than  an  accompani- 
ment for  a  strange  melody  that  floated  upon  that 
ocean  of  mysterious  echoes  as  a  mist  floats  over 
the  waves  of  the  sea. 

Then  various  chants  dropped  out  of  the  har- 
mony, leaving  two  voices  which  finally  melted 
into  each  other ;  and  this  last  isolated  voice 
lingered  long,  sustaining  a  note  as  brilliant  as  a 
thread  of  light.  The  priest  bent  his  brow,  and 
above  his  white  head,  through  the  blue  gauzes  of 
the  incense,  he  held  up  the  Host  to  the  eyes  of 
the  faithful.  At  that  moment  the  tremulous 
note  that  Maese  Perez  held  swelled  and  swelled 
until  an  immense  explosion  of  joyous  harmony 
filled  the  church.  In  the  far-off  corners  of  the 
temple  the  air  seemed  to  buzz,  and  the  jewel- 
windows  quivered  in  their  tight  frames.  Each 
one  of  the  notes  which  formed  the  mighty  chord 
developed  a  theme  of  its  own,  some  near,  some 
far,  some  brilliant,  some  muffled.  It  seemed  as 


232  Christmas  Stories. 

though  the  waters  and  the  birds,  the  breezes  and 
the  forests,  heaven  and  earth,  were  each  in  its 
own  tongue  singing  the  birth  of  the  Saviour. 

The  crowd  held  its  breath  and  listened, 
amazed.  There  were  tears  in  every  eye,  and 
every  heart  was  swelled  with  emotion.  The 
priest  at  the  altar  felt  his  hands  tremble,  for  .that 
which  he  held  in  them  —  that  before  which  men 
and  archangels  bowed  —  was  his  God ;  and  he 
thought  he  saw  the  heavens  opened  and  the 
Host  transfigured.  After  that  the  voices  of  the 
organ  gradually  grew  fainter  like  a  sound  that 
dies  as  it  is  blown  from  echo  to  echo. 

Suddenly,  the  cry  of  a  woman,  a  piercing, 
heart-rending  cry,  was  heard  in  the  organ-loft. 
The  organ  exhaled  a  strange  discord,  something 
like  a  sob,  and  was  silent  The  people  rushed 
to  the  stairs,  toward  which  the  faithful,  drawn 
from  their  religious  ecstasy,  had  all  turned  their 
gaze. 

"What  has  happened?  What  is  it?"  whis- 
pered they  ;  but  nobody  knew  what  to  answer, 
and  the  confusion  increased,  threatening  the 
good  order  and  pious  stillness  proper  to  a 
church. 

"What  has  happened?"  inquired  the  great 
ladies  of  the  officer  of  justice,  who,  preceded 
by  the  beadles,  had  first  penetrated  into  the 
organ-loft,  and  who  now,  pale  and  deeply  dis- 


Maese  PJrez,  the  Organist.  233 

tressed,  was  making  his  way  to  where  the  bishop 
awaited  him,  anxious  like  the  rest  of  the  congre- 
gation to  learn  the  cause  of  the  disturbance. 

''What  has  happened?" 

lf  Maese  Perez  is  dead  !  " 

And  so  it  was.  Those  who  first  reached  the 
organ-loft,  jostling  one  another  up  the  stairs,  had 
found  the  poor  organist,  fallen  face  downwards 
on  the  keys  of  the  old  instrument,  which  was 
still  vibrating ;  while  his  daughter,  kneeling  at  his 
feet,  was  calling  to  him  in  vain  with  sobs  and 
cries. 

III. 

"  Good-evening,  my  Senora  Dona  Baltasara  r 
are  you  here,  too,  for  midnight  Mass  ?  For  my 
part  I  had  intended  going  to  the  parish,  but 
you  see  how  it  is,  —  one  goes  where  everybody 
goes.  And  yet,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  since 
Maese  Perez's  death  I  fee)  as  though  there  were 
a  tombstone  on  my  heart  every  time  I  enter 
Santa  Ines,  Poor  dear  man  !  Truly  he  was  a 
saint.  1  have  a  little  scrap  of  his  doublet  which 
I  preserve  like  a  relic,  and  which  surely  deserves 
it ;  for  I  believe,  by  my  soul,  that  if  the  arch- 
bishop would  only  take  a  hand  in  the  matter, 
our  grandchildren  would  see  him  canonized, 
But  why  expect  it  ?  The  dead  and  the  absent 
have  no  friends.  Novelty  is  what  is  in  favor 


234  Christmas  Stories. 

now,  —  you  understand  me,  of  course.  What  i 
You  do  not  know  what  is  going  on  ?  True,  we 
are  alike  in  that  respect,  —  from  our  house  to 
church,  and  from  church  back  again,  without 
inquiring  into  what  is  said  or  what  is  not  said. 
However,  on  the  wing,  catching  a  word  here,  a 
word  there,  without  the  least  interest  in  the  mat- 
ter, I  sometimes  happen  to  know  the  news. 

:'  Well,  yes,  it  seems  to  be  a  settled  thing 
that  the  organist  of  San  Ramon,  that  squint-eye 
who  is  always  abusing  other  organists,  and  who 
looks  more  like  a  butcher  from  the  Puerta  de  la 
Carne  than  like  a  musician,  is  going  to  play  this 
Christmas  Eve  on  Maese  Perez's  organ.  You 
know,  of  course,  —  for  everybody  knows  it  in 
Seville,  —  that  no  musician  would  accept  the 
undertaking.  Not  even  his  daughter,  who  is  a 
professor  of  music.  After  her  father's  death  she 
entered  the  convent  as  a  novice.  Her  refusal 
was  natural  enough.  Accustomed  as  we  were  to 
hearing  such  marvels,  anything  else  would  seem 
poor,  no  matter  how  desirous  we  might  be  to 
avoid  comparisons  •  and  so  the  sisterhood  had 
determined  that  in  honor  of  the  dead  musician  y 
and  in  token  of  respect  to  his  memory,  the  organ 
should  remain  dumb  to-night,  when  here  comes 
our  man,  and  declares  that  he  is  willing  to 
play  it. 

"There  is  nothing  so  bold  as  ignorance.     To 


Maese  Perez,  the  Organist.  235 

be  sure,  the  fault  is  not  his,  but  theirs.,  who  per- 
mit such  a  profanation.  But  that  is  the  way  of 
the  world  —  but,  I  say,  it  is  no  small  crowd  that  has 
flocked  here  to-night.  One  might  think  that  noth- 
ing had  changed  from  last  year  to  this,  —  the  same 
fine  people,  the  same  splendor,  the  same  crush 
at  the  door,  the  same  excitement  under  the  por- 
tico, the  same  throng  in  the  temple.  Ah.  it  the 
dead  man  were  to  rise,  he  would  die  a  second 
death  rather  than  witness  the  profanation  of  his 
organ.  But  the  best  of  it  is  that  if  what  the 
neighbors  have  told  me  is  true,  the  intruder  is 
going  to  meet  with  a  fine  reception.  When  the 
time  comes  for  him  to  lay  his  hands  on  the  keys, 
there  are  those  who  mean  to  make  a  hubbub 
with  tambourines,  timbrels,  and  drums.  But 
hold  !  there  is  the  hero  of  the  occasion  going 
into  the  church  now-  Holy  saints  !  How  gau- 
dily he  has  arrayed  himself,  What  a  ruff,  and 
what  grand  airs  he  assumes  .'  Come,  come  !  the 
archbishop  arrived  some  time  ago,  and  Mass  will 
soon  begin.  Come  !  for  I  fancy  this  night  will 
give  us  food  for  talk/' 

And  saying  this,  the  good  woman  penetrated 
into  the  church,  opening  a  way  for  herself 
through  the  crowd,  according  to  her  habit,  by 
dint  of  pushing  and  elbowing. 

The  ceremony  had  already  begun. 

The  temple  was  as  brilliant  as  it  had  been  the 


236  Christmas  Stories. 

year  before.  The  new  organist  pushed  through 
the  crowd  that  filled  the  naves,  went  up  to  kiss 
the  bishop's  ring,  then  made  his  way  to  the 
organ-loft,  where  he  took  his  seat,  and  began  to 
try  the  stops  of  the  organ  one  after  another  with 
much  affectation  of  gravity.  From  the  compact 
mass  of  people  in  the  rear  of  the  church  rose  a 
muffled,  confused  sound,  —  a  sure  augury  that 
the  storm  was  brewing  and  would  not  be  long 
in  making  itself  felt. 

"  He  is  an  impostor  who  cannot  do  anything 
straight,  not  even  look  straight,"  said  some. 

"  He  is  an  ignorant  lout,  who  has  turned  the 
organ  of  his  own  parish  into  a  rattle,  and  comes 
here  now  to  profane  Maese  Pe'rez's,"  said  others. 
And  while  one  relieved  himself  of  his  cloak  the 
better  to  thump  his  tambourine,  and  another 
took  hold  of  his  timbrels,  and  all  made  ready  to 
greet  the  first  notes  of  music  with  a  deafening 
clamor,  there  were  but  very  few  who  ventured 
mildly  to  defend  the  strange  man,  whose  proud 
and  pedantic  bearing  was  so  strongly  in  contrast 
with  the  modest  appearance  and  affable  kindness 
of  the  former  organist. 

The  longed-for  moment  came  at  last, — the 
solemn  moment  when  the  priest,  after  bowing 
his  brow  and  murmuring  the  sacred  words,  took 
the  wafer  between  his  fingers.  The  little  bells 
rang  at  the  foot  of  the  altar,  shaking  out  a  shower 


Maese  Perez,  the  Organist.  237 

of  crystal  notes.  The  diaphanous  waves  of  in- 
cense rose  in  the  air  and  the  organ  burst  into 
sound. 

A  terrible  uproar  filled  the  church  and  drowned 
its  first  chords.  Horns,  bagpipes,  timbrels,  tam- 
bourines, —  all  the  instruments  of  the  populace 
lifted  their  discordant  voices  at  once.  But  the 
clamor  only  lasted  a  minute.  It  all  stopped 
simultaneously,  just  as  it  had  begun.  The  sec- 
ond chord,  full,  bold,  magnificent,  sustained  it- 
self. A  torrent  of  sonorous  harmony  gushed 
from  the  metal  pipes  of  the  organ. 

There  were  celestial  chants  like  those  which 
caress  the  ear  in  moments  of  ecstasy ;  chants 
which  the  soul  perceives,  but  which  the  lip  can- 
not repeat ;  single  notes  of  a  distant  melody 
sounding  at  intervals,  brought  by  a  gust  of  wind  ; 
the  sound  of  leaves  that  kiss  each  other  on  the 
limbs  of  trees  with  a  murmur  like  rain  ;  trills  of 
the  lark,  that  rises  singing  from  the  flower- 
covered  land,  like  an  arrow  shot  into  the  clouds ; 
terrible  bursts  of  sound,  imposing  like  the  roar- 
ing of  a  tempest ;  choruses  of  seraphim,  without 
cadence  or  rhythm,  unknown  music  of  another 
world,  which  only  the  imagination  can  compre- 
hend ;  winged  canticles  that  seemed  to  rise  to  the 
throne  of  the  Almighty  in  a  whirl  of  light  and 
sound,  —  all  these  things  were  expressed  by  the 
thousand  voices  of  the  organ,  with  a  power  and 


238  Christmas  Stories. 

poetry  more  intense,  more  mystic  than  had  ever 
been  heard  before. 

When  the  organist  came  down,  such  was  the 
crowd  that  pushed  toward  the  stairway,  and  such 
was  the  desire  to  see  and  admire  him,  that  the 
officer  of  justice,  fearing  and  not  without  reason 
that  he  would  be  smothered,  sent  his  beadles,  in 
order  that,  stick  in  hand,  they  might  open  a  way 
for  him  to  the  high  altar,  where  the  bishop 
awaited  him. 

"  You  see,"  said  the  prelate,  when  the  musi- 
cian was  introduced  into  his  presence,  "  I  came 
all  the  way  from  my  palace  to  hear  you.  Will 
you  be  as  cruel  as  Maese  Perez,  who  would 
never  once  spare  me  the  journey  by  consenting 
to  play  on  Christmas  Eve  for  midnight  Mass  at 
the  Cathedral  ?  " 

"Next  year,"  answered  the  organist,  "I  will 
give  you  that  pleasure,  for  I  would  not  touch 
this  organ  again  for  all  the  gold  in  the  world." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  interrupted  the  prelate. 

"  Because,"  said  the  organist,  trying  to  con- 
trol the  emotion  which  was  revealed  by  the  pal- 
lor of  his  countenance,  —  "  because  it  is  old  and 
poor,  and  with  such  an  instrument  one  cannot 
express  all  that  one  would  like." 

The  archbishop  retired,  followed  by  his  attend- 
ants. One  by  one  the  litters  of  the  noblemen 


Maese  Perez,  the  Organist.  239 

disappeared  in  the  curves  of  the  neighboring 
streets.  The  crowd  around  the  portico  was  dis- 
solved ;  and  the  faithful  dispersed,  taking  their 
various  directions.  The  church  was  about  to  be 
locked  when  two  women,  who  had  lingered  to 
murmur  a  prayer  before  the  altar  of  San  Felipe, 
crossed  themselves  and  went  their  way,  turning 
into  the  Alley  of  the  Duenas. 

"  You  may  say  what  you  choose,  my  dear  Dona 
Baltasara,"  said  one  of  them,  "  but  that  is  my 
opinion.  Every  madman  with  his  whim.  I 
would  not  believe  it  if  I  heard  it  from  the  lips  of 
a  barefooted  Capuchin.  It  is  not  possible  for 
this  man  to  have  played  what  we  have  just 
heard.  I  tell  you,  I  heard  him  a  thousand  times 
at  San  Bartolome",  which  was  his  parish,  and 
from  which  he  was  turned  out  by  the  priest  be- 
cause his  music  was  so  poor;  my  dear,  it  made 
you  feel  like  stopping  your  ears  up  with  cotton. 
And  then  you  have  only  to  look  at  his  face. 
The  face,  they  say,  is  the  mirror  of  the  soul. 
Think  of  Maese  Perez.  Poor  dear  man  !  On  a 
night  like  this,  when  he  came  down  from  the 
organ-loft  after  having  held  the  congregation 
spell-bound,  what  a  kind  smile  he  wore  !  What 
a  happy  flush  on  his  countenance  !  He  was  old, 
and  yet  he  looked  like  an  angel !  As  for  this 
fellow,  he  came  stumbling  down  the  stairs  as 
though  a  dog 'were  barking  at  him  from  the  land- 


240  Christmas  Stories. 

ing,  and  with  a  face  as  pale  as  that  of  a  corpse. 
Believe  me,  my  dear,  in  all  truth,  there  is  some 
mystery  here." 

IV. 

A  year  had  elapsed.  The  abbess  of  the  con- 
vent of  Santa  Ines  and  the  daughter  of  Maese 
Pe'rez  were  speaking  in  a  whisper,  only  half  visi- 
ble in  the  shadows  of  the  choir.  The  bells  with 
loud  voices  were  calling  to  the  faithful  from  the 
height  of  the  steeple.  Every  now  and  then  one 
or  two  persons  crossed  the  now  silent  and  de- 
serted portico  ;  and  after  taking  holy  water,  they 
chose  their  place  in  the  corner  of  the  nave, 
where  a  few  neighbors  were  quietly  waiting  for 
midnight  Mass  to  begin. 

"Do  you  see,"  the  abbess  was  saying,  "your 
fears  are  supremely  childish.  There  is  scarcely 
a  soul  in  the  church.  You  should  have  more 
self-confidence.  All  Seville  is  at  the  cathedral 
to-night.  Play  for  us,  my  child,  —  it  is  just  as 
though  we  were  alone.  Why  do  you  sigh  ?  What 
is  the  matter  with  you?  Speak." 

"  I  am  afraid  ! "  exclaimed  the  girl,  in  a 
shaken  voice. 

"  Afraid  ?  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?  Afraid 
of  what  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  —  of  something  supernatural. 
Last  night  —  listen.  I  had  heard  you  say  that 


Maese  Perez,  the  Organist.  241 

you  were  anxious  to  have  me  play  for  midnight 
Mass  this  Christmas  Eve  ;  and,  proud  of  the  dis- 
tinction, I  thought  I  would  first  try  the  registers 
and  practise  a  little,  that  I  might  surprise  you 
and  do  you  honor  to-day.  I  came  to  the  choir 
alone  ;  I  opened  the  door  which  leads  to  the 
organ-loft.  The  cathedral  clock  just  then  was 
striking  the  hour ;  I  do  not  know  what  hour, 
but  the  strokes  were  many,  many,  and  so  sad  ! 
The  bells  went  on  ringing  during  all  the  time 
that  I  stood  petrified  on  the  threshold.  It 
seemed  an  age  to  me  !  The  church  was  empty 
and  dark.  Far  away,  yonder,  a  little  light  glim- 
mered like  a  star,  lost  in  the  night  of  the  sky.  It 
was  the  dying  light  of  the  lamp  which  burns  be- 
fore the  high  altar.  By  its  faint  reflection,  which 
only  added  to  the  profound  horror  of  the  dark- 
ness, I  saw,  —  yes,  I  saw  it,  Mother ;  do  not 
doubt  me,  —  I  saw  a  man,  who,  sitting  with  his 
back  to  where  I  stood,  was  running  one  hand 
along  the  keys  of  the  organ,  while  he  touched  the 
stops  with  the  other,  and  the  organ  sounded, 
but  in  a  most  indescribable  manner.  Every 
note  was  like  a  sob  stifled  within  the  metal  pipes, 
which  vibrated,  reproducing  the  tone,  muffled,  al- 
most imperceptible,  but  with  wonderful  accuracy. 
"  The  cathedral  clock  was  still  striking  the 
hour,  and  the  man  was  still  trying  the  keys.  I 
could  even  hear  his  breathing. 
16 


242  Christmas  Stories. 

"  The  blood  in  my  veins  was  frozen  with  horror. 
I  felt  a  chill  run  through  my  body;  my  head 
was  hot ;  I  tried  to  scream,  but  I  could  not,  for 
the  man  sitting  there  had  turned  his  face  and 
was  looking  at  me.  No  ;  I  do  not  mean  that ; 
he  was  not  looking,  for  he  was  blind.  It  was 
my  father ! " 

"  Come,  come,  sister,  you  must  try  and  banish 
these  foolish  fancies  with  which  the  arch-enemy 
tries  to  disturb  our  weak  imaginations.  Say  a 
Pater-noster  and  an  Ave- Maria  to  the  archangel 
Saint  Michael,  captain  of  the  celestial  hosts,  that 
he  may  succor  you  from  evil  spirits.  Wear  on 
your  neck  a  scapular  touched  by  the  relics  of 
San  Pacomio,  the  counsellor  against  temptations  ; 
and  go,  my  child,  go  and  take  your  place  at  the 
organ.  Mass  is  about  to  begin,  and  the  faithful 
are  waiting  with  impatience.  Your  father  is  in 
heaven ;  and  it  is  far  more  likely  that  from  the 
home  of  the  blessed  he  will  inspire  you  on  this 
holy  night  rather  than  appear  to  you  to  give  you 
a  fright." 

The  abbess  went  to  take  her  seat  in  the  choir 
in  the  midst  of  the  sisterhood.  The  daughter  of 
Maese  Perez  opened  the  door  of  the  organ-loft 
with  trembling  hand,  and  sat  on  the  stool  before 
the  organ.  Mass  began. 

Mass  began,  and  nothing  unusual  occurred 
until  the  time  of  the  consecration.  At  that 


Maese  PJrez,  the  Organist.  243 

moment  the  organ  sounded,  and  with  the  first 
sound  came  a  shriek  from  the  organ-loft. 

The  abbess,  the  nuns,  and  some  of  the  faithful 
ran  to  the  organ. 

"  Look  at  him  !  look  at  him  !  "  cried  the  girl, 
whose  eyes,  starting  from  their  sockets,  were  fixed 
upon  the  stool  from  which  she  had  just  risen  in 
terror.  She  stood  clinging  with  convulsed 
hands  to  the  railing  of  the  loft. 

All  eyes  were  turned  upon  the  point  which  she 
indicated.  There  was  no  one  at  the  organ,  and 
still  it  went  on  sounding,  like  the  voices  of 
archangels,  in  a  burst  of  mystic  joy. 

"  Did  I  not  tell  you  so,  one  and  a  thousand 
times,  my  good  Dona  Baltasara,  —  did  I  not  tell 
you  so  ?  There  is  some  mystery  in  all  this.  Listen. 
What!  Did  you  not  attend  Mass  last  night? 
Anyway,  I  presume  you  know  what  occurred. 
Why,  it  is  the  talk  of  Seville  to-day.  The  arch- 
bishop is  furious,  and  with  good  reason.  Think 
of  his  having  missed  the  Mass  at  Santa  Ines,  — 
of  his  not  having  witnessed  the  miracle  ;  and  all 
for  what,  pray?  That  he  might  sit  and  listen  to 
a  perfect  charivari ;  for  according  to  those  who 
were  present  and  who  told  me  of  it,  the  new 
organist's  playing  was  nothing  else.  But  I  said 
so  all  the  time.  That  squint-eye  never  could 
have  played  the  music  we  heard  together  last 


244  Christmas  Stories. 

Christmas  Eve  at  Santa  Ine's.  It  was  a  lie! 
That  music  came  from  another  soul.  There  is  a 
mystery  in  all  this,  my  dear,  —  a  mystery,  believe 
me." 

Yes,  and  so  there  was.  A  deep  mystery,  a 
beautiful  mystery,  which  was  the  soul  of  Maese 
Pe'rez. 


THE  TORN  CLOAK. 

From  the  French  of  MAXIME 
DU  CAMP. 

I. 

ft 

'IGH  in  the  steeple  the 
bells  were  conversing. 
Two  of  the  younger  ones 
were  vexed  and  spoke 
angrily,  "  Is  it  not  time 
-  we  were  asleep?  It  is 
almost  midnight,  and 

twice  have  we  been  shaken,  twice  have  we  been 
forced  to  cry  out  through  the  gloom  just  as 
though  it  were  day,  and  we  were  singing  the  call 
for  Sunday  Mass.  There  are  people  moving 
about  in  the  church ;  are  we  going  to  be  tor- 
mented again,  I  wonder?  Might  they  not  leave 
us  in  peace?'' 

At  this  the  oldest  bell  in  the  steeple  said 
indignantly,  in  a  voice  which  though  cracked 
had  lost  none  of  its  solemnity,  "  Hush,  little 
ones  !  Are  you  not  ashamed  to  speak  so  fool- 
ishly? When  you  went  to  Rome  to  be  blessed, 


246  Christmas  Stories. 

did  you  not  take  an  oath,  did  you  not  swear  to 
fulfil  your  duty?  Do  you  not  know  that  in  a 
few  minutes  it  will  be  Christmas,  and  that  you 
will  then  celebrate  the  birth  of  Him  whose 
resurrection  you  have  already  celebrated  ?  " 

"  But  it  is   so   cold ! "    whimpered   a   young 
bell. 

"  And  do  you  not  think  that  He  was  cold, 
when  He  came  into  the  world,  naked  and  weak  ? 
Would  He  not  have  suffered  on  the  heights  of 
Bethlehem  had  not  the  ass  and  the  ox  warmed 
Him  with  their  breath?  Instead  of  grumbling 
and  complaining,  let  your  voices  be  sweet  and 
tender  in  memory  of  the  canticles  with  which 
His  mother  lulled  Him  to  sleep.  Come,  hold 
yourselves  in  readiness.  I  can  see  them  light- 
ing the  tapers ;  they  have  constructed  a  little 
manger  before  the  Virgin's  altar ;  the  banner  is 
unfurled  ;  the  beadle  is  bustling  about.  He  has 
a  bad  cold,  the  poor  man  ;  how  he  sneezes  ! 
Monsieur  le  Cur6  has  put  on  his  embroidered 
alb.  I  hear  the  approaching  sound  of  wooden 
shoes  ;  the  peasants  are  coming  to  pray.  The 
clock  is  about  to  strike  the  hour  —  now  — 
Christmas  !  Christmas  !  Ring  out  with  all  your 
heart  and  all  your  might !  Let  no  man  say  that 
he  has  not  been  summoned  to  midnight  Mass." 


The  Torn  Cloak.  247 


II. 

It  had  been  snowing  for  three  days.  The  sky 
was  black,  the  ground  white  ;  the  north  wind 
howled  through  the  trees  ;  the  ponds  were  frozen  ; 
and  the  little  birds  were  hungry.  Women, 
wrapped  in  long  mantles  of  brown  wool,  and 
men  in  heavy  cloaks  slowly  made  their  way  into 
the  church.  They  knelt  and  with  bent  brows 
murmured  the  answer  as  the  priest  said,  "  And 
the  Lord  said  unto  me, '  Thou  art  my  Son,  whom 
this  day  I  have  begotten.'  "  The  incense  was 
smoking,  and  blossoms  of  hellebore,  which  are 
the  roses  of  Christmas,  lay  before  the  tabernacle  in 
the  light  of  the  tapers.  Behind  one  of  the  pillars, 
near  the  door  of  the  church,  knelt  a  child.  His 
feet  were  bare.  He  had  slipped  off  his  wooden 
shoes  on  account  of  the  noise  they  made.  His 
cap  lay  on  the  floor  before  him  and  with  clasped 
hands  he  prayed,  "  For  the  soul  of  my  father 
who  is  dead,  for  the  life  of  my  mother,  and  for 
me,  for  your  little  Jacques,  who  loves  you,  O  my 
God,  I  implore  you !  "  And  he  knelt  all  through 
Mass,  lost  in  the  fervor  of  his  devotion,  and  rose 
only  when  he  heard  the  words,  — 

•"  Ite  missa  est." 

The  people  crowded  together  under  the  ex- 
terior porch.  Every  man  lighted  his  lantern, 


248  Christmas  Stories. 

and  pulled  up  the  collar  of  his  cloak ;  and  the 
women  drew  their  mantles  closely  around  them. 
Brrr !  how  cold  it  was !  A  little  boy  called 
out  to  Jacques,  "Are  you  coming  with  us?" 

"  No,"  said  he,  "  I  have  not  time  ;  "  and  he 
started  off  on  a  run.  He  could  hear  the  village 
people  far  away  singing  the  favorite  carol  of 
olden  France  as  they  walked  home,  — 

"  He  is  born,  the  Heavenly  Child. 
Ring  out,  hautbois !  ring  out,  bagpipes ! 
He  is  born,  the  Heavenly  Child  ; 
Let  all  voices  sing  his  advent !  " 

III. 

Jacques  reached  the  thatched  cottage  at  the 
far  end  of  the  hamlet,  nestling  in  a  rocky  hollow 
at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  He  opened  the  door 
carefully,  and  tiptoed  into  a  room  in  which  there 
was  neither  light  nor  fire. 

"  Is  that  you,  little  one  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mother." 

"  I  prayed  while  you  were  praying.  You 
must  be  half  asleep ;  go  to  bed,  child.  I  do 
not  need  anything.  If  I  am  thirsty,  I  have 
the  water-jug  here  where  I  can  reach  it." 

In  a  corner  of  the  room  near  Marguerite's 
bed,  Jacques  turned  over  a  litter  of  ferns  and 
dry  grasses,  stretched  himself  upon  it,  drew  the 


The  Torn  Cloak.  249 

ragged  end  of  a  blanket  over  him,  and  fell  asleep. 
Marguerite,  however,  did  not  sleep.  She  was 
thinking,  and  her  thoughts  wrung  tears  from  her 
eyes.  She  was  evoking  the  happy  days  when 
her  husband  was  with  her,  and  life  seemed  so 
full  of  hope.  She  lay  still,  so  as  not  to  waken 
her  boy,  her  head  thrown  back  on  the  bolster, 
the  tears  trickling  off  her  bony  cheeks,  her  hand 
pressed  to  her  hot  chest. 

Marguerite's  husband  had  been  the  pride  of 
his  village,  a  hard  worker  and  an  upright  man. 
At  the  call  of  the  Conscription  he  went  to  the 
wagon  train,  for  he  was  a  good  driver,  kind  to 
his  horses,  a  man  who  made  his  own  bed  only 
after  having  prepared  their  litter.  He  spoke  with 
pleasure  of  the  time  when  he  had  been  "  in  the 
army  of  the  war,"  and  would  say  laughingly,  "  I 
carted  heaps  of  glory  in  the  Crimea  and  in  Italy." 
His  return  to  the  village  was  a  source  of  rejoic- 
ing. He  had  known  Marguerite  as  a  child  ;  he 
now  found  her  a  woman,  and  married  her.  They 
were  poor,  Marguerite's  trousseau  consisting  of 
a  three-franc  cap,  which  she  bought  in  order  to 
make  a  good  appearance  at  the  church  cere- 
mony. They  owned  the  cottage,  — -  a  miserable, 
dilapidated  hut ;  but  they  were  happy  in  it  be- 
cause they  worked  hard  and  loved  each  other. 
The  village  people  said,  "  Marguerite  is  no 
simpleton.  She  knew  what  she  was  about  when 


250  Christmas  Stories. 

she  married  Grand- Pierre.  The  sun  does  not 
find  him  abed.  He  is  strong,  saving  too,  and 
no  drunkard." 

Yes  ;  Grand-Pierre  was  a  good  workman,  spry, 
punctual,  —  a  man  of  much  action  and  few  words. 
He  had  resumed  his  old  trade,  and  drove  his 
teams  through  the  mountains  for  a  man  who 
was  quarrying  granite.  He  drove  four  stout- 
haunched,  wide-chested  horses,  and  excelled  in 
manoeuvring  the  screw-jack,  in  balancing  the 
heaviest  blocks,  and  driving  down  the  steep  de 
clivities  that  opened  into  the  plain.  When  he 
came  home  after  his  day's  work,  he  found  the 
soup  and  a  jug  of  cider  on  the  table,  and  Mar- 
guerite waiting  for  him.  Everything  smiled 
upon  them  in  the  poor  little  home,  where  there 
was  soon  a  willow  cradle. 

But  happiness  is  short-lived.  There  is  an 
Arab  proverb  that  says,  "  As  soon  as  a  man 
paints  his  house  in  pink,  fate  hastens  to  daub  it 
black."  For  eleven  years  Pierre  and  Marguerite 
lived  happily  together  and  laid  their  plans  with 
no  fear  of  the  future.  Then  misfortune  came 
and  made  its  home  with  them.  One  raw,  foggy 
winter's  day  Grand-Pierre  went  out  to  the  moun- 
tain. He  loaded  his  wagon  ;  and  after  having  left 
the  dangerous  passes  of  the  road  behind,  he  sat 
on  the  shaft  for  a  rest,  and  leaned  against  a  great 
block  of  granite.  He  was  tired  ;  and  lulled  by 


The  Torn  Cloak.  251 

the  swaying  of  the  vehicle  and  the  monotonous 
jingle  of  the  bells,  he  involuntarily  closed  his 
eyes.  After  a  little  the  left  wheel  went  over  a 
great  limb  that  lay  across  the  road.  The  shock 
was  violent.  Pierre  was  pitched  from  his  seat ; 
and  before  he  could  move,  the  heavy  wheels 
rolled  slowly  over  him  and  crushed  in  his 
chest. 

The  horses  went  their  way  unconscious  of  the 
fact  that  their  driver,  their  oldest  friend,  lay 
dead  behind  them.  They  reached  the  quarriers 
and  stopped  at  the  door. 

"  Where  is  Grand-Pierre?  " 

Inquiries  were  made  at  once.  Men  were  sent 
to  the  cottage.  Marguerite  grew  anxious.  As 
the  light  failed,  they  took  torches  and  went  up 
the  mountain,  shouting,  "  Hello  there,  Grand- 
Pierre  !  "  but  no  voice  answered.  At  last  they 
came  upon  the  poor  man  lying  in  the  middle  of 
the  road  on  his  back  with  outstretched  arms. 
The  wheels  had  cut  through  the  cloak  and  the 
edge  of  the  rent  was  crushed  into  his  chest  and 
black  with  blood. 

All  the  villagers  followed  the  corpse  to  the 
church  and  the  cemetery,  and  held  out  their 
hands  to  Marguerite,  who  stood  white  and  immo- 
bile, like  a  statue  of  wax,  muttering  mechani- 
cally under  her  breath,  "O  God,  have  pity! 
have  pity !  "  Jacques  was  then  in  his  tenth  year. 


252  Christmas  Stories. 

He  could  not  appreciate  the  greatness  of  his 
mother's  sorrow,  and  only  cried  because  she 
did. 

Then  misfortune  had  followed  misfortune,  — 
poverty,  illness,  misery.  And  so  through  this 
Christmas  night  Marguerite  lay  stifling  her  sobs 
as  she  recalled  the  past. 


IV. 


Jacques  rose  at  dawn,  shook  off  the  dry 
grasses  that  stuck  to  his  hair,  and  went  over  to 
his  mother.  Her  eyes  were  half  closed,  her  lips 
very  white,  and  there  were  warm  red  spots  on 
her  cheeks.  When  she  saw  the  boy,  she  made 
a  faint  movement  with  her  head. 

"  Did  you  sleep,  mother?   Do  you  feel  well?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  am  very  cold.  Make  a  little  fire, 
will  you  ?  " 

Jacques  searched  every  corner  of  the  hut, 
looked  in  the  old  cupboard,  went  through  the 
cellar  which  had  formerly  contained  their  sup- 
plies, and  said,  — 

"  There  is  no  wood  left ;  and  there  are  no 
roots  either." 

"  Never  mind,  then.  It  is  not  so  very  cold, 
after  all." 

Jacques  picked  up  a  stone,  hammered  at  the 
nail  that  secured  the  strap  of  his  wooden  shoe, 


The  lorn  Cloak.  253 

slipped  his  foot  into  it,  pulled  his  cap  down 
over  his  ears,  and  said  resolutely,  — 

"  I  am  going  out  to  the  mountain  to  get  some 
dead  wood." 

"Why,  you  forget  that  to-day  is  Christmas, 
my  child  !  " 

"  I  know ;  but  Monsieur  le  Cure  will  forgive 
me." 

"  No,  no,  you  must  not  go ;  it  has  been 
prohibited." 

"  I  will  see  that  the  rural  guard  does  not 
catch  me.  Please  let  me  go ;  I  will  be  back 
soon." 

"  Well,  go,  then." 

Jacques  put  his  pruning-knife  in  his  pocket, 
threw  a  rope  over  his  shoulder,  and  opened  the 
door.  A  gust  of  wind  thick  with  snow  dashed 
him  back  and  whirled  through  the  room. 

"  What  a  storm  !  " 

"  Holy  angels  !  "  cried  Marguerite  ;  "  it  is  the 
white  deluge !  Listen,  little  one  :  you  are  not 
warm  enough.  Open  the  old  chest  where  your 
father's  things  are,  and  get  his  cloak,  —  the  cloak 
he  had  on  when  they  brought  him  home.  Wrap 
it  around  you,  and  see  that  you  do  not  take 
cold.  One  sick  person  in  the  house  is  enough." 

Jacques  took  the  cloak,  upon  which  a  twig  of 
blessed  box  had  been  laid.  It  was  one  of  those 
great  black  and  white  cloaks  of  thick  wool  and 


254  Christmas  Stories. 

goat-hair,  with  a  small  velvet  collar  and  brass 
clasps.  There  was  a  gaping  black  rent  in  it, 
and  here  and  there  an  ugly  dark  spot.  It  was 
very  long  for  Jacques,  so  Marguerite  pinned  the 
edges  up  under  the  collar.  When  he  was  half- 
way out  of  the  door  she  called  out  to  him,  — 

"  Jacques,  if  you  pass  the  Treves  do  not  for- 
get to  say  a  prayer." 

V. 

Jacques  started  off  at  a  brisk  pace.  There 
was  not  a  human  being  to  be  seen  anywhere. 
The  fields  were  gloomy  and  desolate.  The 
snow  seemed  to  shoot  along  horizontally,  so 
violently  was  it  lashed  by  the  north  wind.  On 
the  high,  frosted  limb  of  a  poplar  a  raven  was 
croaking.  Jacques  stopped  every  now  and  again 
to  knock  off  the  snow  which  gathered  and  hard- 
ened on  the  soles  of  his  wooden  shoes.  He 
was  not  cold,  but  he  found  his  cloak  very  heavy. 
He  had  gone  a  long  way  and  had  reached  the 
first  undulations  of  the  mountain,  the  edge  of  the 
forest,  when  he  stopped  petrified  before  the  rural 
guard,  who  appeared  suddenly  at  a  turn  in  the 
road,  imposing  with  his  cocked  hat,  his  sword, 
and  the  word  "  Law  "  glittering  on  his  belt. 

This  Father  Monhache,  who  had  been  a  sap- 
per before  he  became  a  rural  guard,  was  greatly 


The  Torn  Cloak.  255 

dreaded  in  the  land.  He  was  the  terror  of  the 
village  boys,  for  whenever  he  found  any  of  them 
stealing  apples,  shaking  the  plum-trees,  or  knock- 
ing down  nuts,  he  swore  at  them  terribly,  and 
then  led  them  by  the  ear  to  Monsieur  le  Maire, 
who  sentenced  the  delinquents  to  a  paternal 
spanking.  Jacques  was  therefore  aghast  when 
he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  this  merci- 
less representative  of  the  authority. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Jacques,  in  this  devil 
of  a  storm?  " 

Jacques  tried  to  concoct  some  story  to  ex- 
plain his  expedition  ;  and  before  he  had  decided 
which  would  be  the  most  effective,  he  caught 
himself  saying  simply,  — 

"  I  am  going  to  the  mountain,  Father  Mon- 
hache,  to  get  some  dead  wood.  We  have  none 
at  home,  and  my  mother  is  ill." 

The  old  guard  dropped  an  oath  and  said  in  a 
voice  which  was  by  no  means  harsh,  — 

"  Ah,  so  you  are  going  to  the  mountain  for 
dead  wood,  are  you  ?  Well,  if  I  meet  you  in  the 
village  this  evening  with  your  fagot,  I  will  close 
one  eye  and  wink  the  other,  do  you  understand  ? 
And  if  you  ever  tell  anybody  what  I  said,  I  will 
pull  your  ears."  And  he  walked  off  with  a  shrug. 
He  had  not  gone  ten  feet  when  he  turned  and 
shouted,  "  There  is  more  dead  wood  in  the 
copse  of  the  Prevote  than  anywhere  else." 


256  Christmas  Stories. 


VI. 

"  He  is  not  such  a  bad  man,  after  all," 
thought  Jacques. 

He  was  now  climbing  the  mountain,  and  it 
was  a  hard  struggle  for  his  little  legs.  Every 
now  and  then  he  heard  what  he  thought  was  a 
moan  in  the  distance,  —  the  breaking  of  a  limb 
under  the  weight  of  the  snow.  Look  as  he 
would  through  all  those  branches,  he  could  not 
see  a  single  blackbird,  nor  even  a  jay.  Not  a 
little  mouse  ran  along  the  slope.  A  few  intrepid 
sparrows  alone,  black  spots  on  the  white  ground, 
hopped  about  in  search  of  food. 

Measuring  his  steps  to  the  time,  Jacques  began 
to  sing  in  a  low  tone,  — 

"  He  is  born,  the  Heavenly  Child,  —  " 

and  walked  along  with  a  great  effort,  leaning 
forward.  He  sunk  into  hollows  where  the  snow 
was  deep.  He  knew  that  he  was  not  far  from 
the  copse  of  the  Pre'vote',  so  he  took  courage, 
though  he  stubbed  his  foot  against  the  hard, 
concealed  ruts,  and  tumbled  into  holes.  Father 
Monhache  was  right ;  there  was  surely  no  lack  of 
dead  wood  at  the  copse  of  the  Pre'vote. 

Over  the  shivering  heather  and  the  crouching 
brier,  lay  the  fallen  branches  in  their  furrows. 


The  Torn  Cloak.  257 

Jacques  fell  to  work ;  and  how  he  toiled  !  He 
had  taken  off  his  cloak,  that  his  movements 
might  be  freer.  His  legs  sunk  deep  in  the  snow. 
His  hands  and  his  arms  were  drenched  and 
chilled,  while  his  face  was  hot  and  wet  with  per- 
spiration. He  would  stop  every  minute  or  two 
to  look  at  his  pile  of  wood,  and  think  of  the 
bright  flame  it  would  make  in  the  hut. 

When  he  had  all  he  could  carry,  he  tied  it  in 
a  fagot,  threw  his  cloak  over  his  shoulders,  and 
started  along  the  shortest  cut  to  the  village.  His 
legs  trembled.  Now  and  then  he  was  compelled 
to  stop  and  lean  against  a  tree. 

VII. 

After  a  little  he  came  to  a  cross-road.  This 
was  Treves.  In  the  days  of  the  Romans  it  had 
been  called  Trivium,  because  of  the  three  roads 
that  met  there.  On  that  spot  had  formerly  stood 
an  altar  to  Mercury,  the  protector  of  roads,  the 
god  of  travellers,  and  the  patron  of  thieves. 
Christianity  had  torn  down  the  Pagan  altar  and 
replaced  it  by  a  crucifix  of  granite.  On  the 
pedestal,  gnawed  by  lichens,  one  may  still  find 
the  date,  A.  n.  1314.  During  the  Hundred 
Years'  War  the  statue  was  shattered,  and  the 
cross-road  strewn  with  its  fragments.  Then, 
when  the  foreign  element  which  sullied  our  land 


258  Christmas  Stories. 

had  been  cast  out,  when  "  Joan,  the  good  maid 
of  Lorraine,"  had  returned  the  kingdom  of 
France  to  the  little  king  of  Bourges,  the  statue 
was  raised,  and  from  that  time  it  has  been  the 
object  of  special  veneration  through  the  country. 
Every  peasant  bows  before  it,  and  even  the  vet- 
erinary, who  delights  in  laughing  at  priests,  would 
not  dare  pass  the  Treves  without  raising  his  hat. 
With  his  hands  nailed  to  the  cross,  his  brow 
encircled  with  thorns,  the  Christ  hangs,  as 
though  he  were  calling  the  whole  world  to  take 
refuge  in  his  outstretched  arms.  He  seems 
enormous.  In  the  folds  of  the  cloth  which 
girds  his  loins  wrens  have  built  nests  that  have 
never  been  disturbed.  His  face  is  turned 
toward  the  East ;  and  his  hollow,  suffering  gaze 
is  fixed  upon  the  sky,  as  though  he  were  looking 
for  the  star  that  guided  the  Magi  and  led  the 
shepherds  to  the  stable  in  Bethlehem. 

VIII. 

Jacques  did  not  forget  his  mother's  instruc- 
tion. He  laid  down  his  fagot,  took  off  his  cap, 
and  there,  on  his  knees,  began  a  prayer,  to 
which  the  wind  moaned  a  dreary  accompani- 
ment. He  repeated  some  prayers  which  he  had 
learned  at  the  Catechism  class  ;  he  said  others 
too, — fervent  words  that  rose  of  themselves 


The  Torn  Cloak,  259 

from  his  heart.  And  as  he  prayed,  he  looked 
up  at  the  Christ,  lashed  by  the  storm.  Its  parted 
lips  and  upturned  eyes  gave  it  an  expression  of 
infinite  pain.  Two  little  icicles,  like  congealed 
tears,  hung  on  its  eyelids,  and  the  emaciated 
body  stretched  itself  upon  the  cross  in  a  last 
spasm  of  agony.  Jacques  began  to  suffer  with 
the  suffering  embodied  there,  and  he  was  moved 
to  console  the  One  whom  he  had  come  to 
invoke. 

When  his  prayers  were  said,  he  took  up  his 
fagot  and  started  on  his  way ;  but  before  he 
had  left  the  cross-road  behind  him,  he  turned 
and  looked  back.  The  Christ's  eyes  seemed  to 
follow  him.  The  face  was  less  sombre ;  the 
features  seemed  to  have  relaxed  into  an  expres- 
sion of  infinite  gentleness.  A  gust  of  wind 
shook  the  snow  that  had  accumulated  on  its 
outstretched  arms.  One  might  have  believed 
that  the  statue  had  shivered.  Jacques  stopped. 
"  Oh,  my  poor  God,"  said  he,  "  how  cold  you 
are  ! "  and  he  went  back  and  stood  before  the 
crucifix.  Then  with  a  sudden  impulse  he  took 
off  his  cloak.  He  climbed  upon  the  pedestal, 
then  putting  his  foot  upon  the  projection  of  the 
loin-cloth,  and  reaching  about  the  shoulders,  he 
threw  the  cloak  around  the  statue. 

When  he  had  reached  the  ground  again, 
"  Now,  at  least,  you  will  not  be  so  cold ! " 


260  Christmas  Stories. 

said  he  ;  and  the  two  little  icicles  that  had  hung 
on  the  eyelids  of  the  divine  image  melted  and 
ran  slowly  down  the  granite  cheeks  like  tears  of 
gratitude. 

Jacques  started  off  at  a  rapid  pace.  The 
cruel  north  wind  blew  through  his  cotton  blouse. 
He  began  to  run,  and  the  fagot  beat  against  his 
shoulders  and  bruised  them.  At  last  he  reached 
the  foot  of  a  declivity  and  stopped  panting  by  a 
ravine  sheltered  from  the  snow  and  the  wind  by 
a  wall  of  pines.  How  tired  he  was  !  He  de- 
scended into  the  ravine  and  sat  down  to  rest, 
only  for  a  minute,  thought  he,  —  just  a  minute 
more,  and  he  would  be  up  again  and  on  his  way 
to  his  mother.  How  tired  he  was  !  His  head, 
too,  was  very  hot,  and  felt  heavy.  He  lay  down 
and  leaned  his  head  against  the  fagot.  "  I 
must  not  go  to  sleep,"  he  said.  "  Oh,  no,  I  will 
not  go  to  sleep  ;  "  and  as  he  said  this,  his  eyelids 
drooped,  and  he  became  suddenly  engulfed  in  a 
great  flood  of  unconsciousness. 

IX. 

When  Jacques  awoke  he  was  greatly  surprised. 
The  ravine,  the  snow,  the  forest,  the  mountain, 
the  gray  sky,  the  freezing  wind,  —  all  had  dis- 
appeared. He  looked  for  his  fagot,  but  could 
find  it  nowhere.  He  had  never  seen  or  even 


The  Torn  Cloak.  261 

heard  of  this  new  country  ;  and  he  was  unable  to 
define  its  substance,  to  circumscribe  its  immen- 
sity, or  appreciate  its  splendors.  The  air  was 
balmy,  saturated  with  exquisite  perfumes,  and 
it  exhaled  soft  harmonies  that  made  his  heart 
quiver  with  delight. 

He  rose.  The  ground  beneath  his  feet  was 
elastic,  and  seemed  to  rise  to  meet  his  step, 
so  that  walking  became  restful.  •  A  luminous 
halo  hovered  about  him.  Instead  of  the  old 
torn  cloak,  he  wore  a  mantle  strewn  with  stars, 
and  it  was  seamless,  like  the  one  for  which  dice 
were  cast  on  the  heights  of  Calvary.  His  hands 

—  his  poor  little  hands,  tumefied  with  chilblains, 
and  which  the  cold  had  chapped  and  creviced, 

—  were  now  white  and  soft  like  the  tips  of  a 
swan's  wings.     Jacques  was  amazed,  but  no  feel- 
ing of  fear  agitated  him.     He  was  calm  and  felt 
strangely  confident.     A  great  burden  seemed  to 
have  been  lifted  from  his  shoulders ;  he  was  as 
light  as  the  air,  and  aglow  with  beatitude. 

"  Where  am  I  ?  "  he  asked  ;  and  a  voice  more 
harmonious  than  the  whispering  of  the  breeze 
answered,  — 

"  In  my  Father's  House,  which  is  the  home  of 
the  Just." 

Then  through  a  veil  of  azure  and  light  a  great 
granite  crucifix  arose  before  him.  It  was  the 
crucifix  of  the  Treves.  Grand- Pierre's  cloak, 


262  Christmas  Stories. 

with  the  rent  across  it,  floated  from  the  shoul- 
ders of  the  Christ.  The  coarse  wool  had  grown 
as  diaphanous  as  a  cloud,  and  through  it  the 
light  radiated  as  from  a  sun.  The  thorns  on  his 
brow  glittered  like  carbuncles,  and  a  superhuman 
beauty  lighted  his  countenance.  From  fields  of 
space  which  the  sight  could  now  explore  came 
aerial  chants.  Jacques  fell  upon  his  knees  and 
prostrated  himself. 

The  Christ  said,  — 

"  Rise,  little  one  ;  you  were  moved  to  pity  by 
the  sufferings  of  your  God,  —  you  stripped  your- 
self of  your  cloak  to  shield  him  from  the  cold, 
and  this  is  why  he  has  given  you  his  cloak  in 
exchange  for  yours ;  for  of  all  the  virtues  the 
highest  and  rarest  is  charity,  which  surpasses 
wisdom  and  knowledge.  Hereafter  you  will  be 
the  host  of  your  God." 

Jacques  took  a  few  steps  toward  the  dazzling 
vision  and  held  out  his  arms  in  supplication. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  said  the  Christ. 

The  child  said,  "  I  want  my  mother." 

"The  angels  who  carried  Mary  into  Egypt 
will  bring  her  to  you." 

There  was  a  great  rustle  of  wings,  and  a  smile 
shone  on  the  face  of  the  granite  Christ. 

Jacques  was  praying,  but  his  prayer  was  un- 
like any  that  he  had  ever  said  before  It  was  a 
chant  of  ecstasy,  which  rose  to  his  lips  in  words 


The  Torn  Cloak.  263 

so  beautiful  that  he  experienced  a  sense  of  in- 
effable happiness  in  listening  to  himself. 

Far  away,  on  the  brink  of  the  horizon,  pure 
and  clear  as  crystal,  he  saw  Marguerite  borne 
toward  him  on  billows  of  white.  She  was  no 
longer  pale,  worn,  and  sad.  She  was  radiant, 
and  glowed  with  that  internal  light  which  is  the 
beauty  of  the  soul,  and  is  alone  imperishable. 
The  angels  laid  her  at  the  foot  of  the  crucifix, 
and  she  prostrated  herself  and  adored.  When 
she  raised  her  head  there  were  two  souls  beside 
her,  and  their  essences  blended  in  one  kiss,  in 
one  burst  of  gratitude.  The  granite  Christ 
wept. 

X. 

High  in  the  steeple  the  bells  are  conversing. 
The  two  younger  ones  are  sullen.  "  The  people 
in  this  village  are  mad.  Why  can  they  never  be 
quiet?  Were  not  yesterday's  duties  sufficiently 
tiresome  ?  —  midnight  Mass,  Matins,  the  Mass  of 
the  Aurora,  the  third  Mass,  High  Mass,  Vespers, 
the  Angelus,  to  say  nothing  of  supplementary 
chimes.  There  was  no  end  to  it !  And  now 
to-day  we  must  begin  all  over  again.  They 
pull  us,  they  shake  us,  —  first  the  toll  for  the 
dead,  the  funeral  service  next,  then  the  burial. 
It  is  really  too  much  !  Why  will  they  never 
leave  us  in  peace  on  our  frames  ?  Our  clappers 


264  Christmas  Stories. 

are  weary,  and  our  sides  are  bruised  with  the 
repeated  strokes.  What  can  be  the  matter  with 
these  peasants?  Here  they  come  to  church 
again  in  their  holiday  clothes.  Father  Mon- 
hache  wears  his  most  forbidding  scowl ;  his  beard 
bristles  fiercely ;  every  now  and  then  he  brushes 
something  from  his  eyes  with  the  back  of  his 
hand.  His  cocked  hat  has  a  defiant  tilt.  The 
boys  had  better  be  on  their  guard  this  day.  Far 
down  the  road  there,  I  see  two  coffins,  one  large 
and  one  small.  They  are  lifting  them  on  the'ox- 
cart ;  see  !  But  what  is  that  to  us,  and  why  are 
we  expected  to  ring?" 

The  old  bell,  full  of  wisdom  and  experience, 
reproved  them,  saying,  — 

"  Be  still,  and  do  not  shame  me  with  your 
ignorance.  You  have  no  conception  of  the  dig- 
nity of  your  functions.  You  have  been  blessed  ; 
you  are  church-bells.  To  men  you  say,  '  Keep 
vigil  over  your  immortal  souls  ! '  and  to  God,  '  O 
Father,  have  pity  on  human  weakness  ! '  In- 
stead of  being  proud  of  your  exalted  mission, 
and  meditating  upon  what  you  see,  you  chatter 
like  hand-bells  and  reason  like  sleigh-bells. 
Your  bright  color  and  your  clear  voices  need 
not  make  you  vain,  for  age  will  tarnish  you  and 
the  fatigues  of  your  duty  will  crack  your  voices. 
When  years  have  passed ;  when  you  shall  have 
proclaimed  church  festivals,  weddings,  births, 


The  Torn  Cloak.  265 

christenings,  and  funerals ;  after  having  raised 
the  alarms  for  conflagrations,  and  rung  the  toc- 
sin at  the  invasion  of  the  enemy,  —  you  will  no 
longer  complain  of  your  fate  ;  you  will  begin  to 
comprehend  the  things  of  this  world,  and  divine 
the  secrets  of  the  other  ;  you  will  come  to  under- 
stand how  tears  on  earth  can  become  smiles  in 
heaven. 

"  So  ring  gently,  gently,  without  sadness  or 
fear.  Let  your  voices  sound  like  the  cooing  of 
doves.  A  torn  cloak  in  this  world  may  be  a 
mantle  of  eternal  blessedness  in  the  next." 


THE   END. 


A     000  721  627     8 


